Summer Dying Fast
by Lee Savage
Summary: AU. When Tarrlok and Noatak escape Republic City, they take the Avatar with them. Tentative Amorralok.
1. Noatak I

There'd been a day when Noatak forgot what his mother's voice sounded like. It'd been replaced by the woman who took him in, though he had very little to do with her. It was unfair that he forgot aspects of his mother, since his father's voice still rang as clear as those nights when he'd stowed away on a large ship and chanced creeping onto the deck to see the sky. When the boat stilled on a quieter coast, everything sang out without such malice or harsh expectations.

They don't manufacture nights like that in Republic City.

Noatak believed it'd be a place of lights and dancing in the streets and freedom. A naïve dream based on radio messages and pieces of conversations from travelers. His father never really described the city itself, but everyone else turned it into an actual character.

Someone hopeful and maternal. Noatak had no ill feelings toward his own mother, but he knew she preferred Tarrlok. Because he was the baby. The poor boy Yakone never complimented or wanted to take on hunting trips. She pursed her lips and her eyes shone with obliviousness toward her husband's perniciousness to his own kin, for baleful considerations never crossed her mind. She was there for Tarrlok because Noatak didn't need the extra attention; he was a strong boy.

But the city would give him what he never received: he'd be himself. Nothing from his past would follow him here except the clothes on his back. He'd find work and discard his past. He wouldn't even be Noatak anymore. He'd be whoever he wanted in this place of many colors.

However, being a fifteen-year-old without a family left him sleeping under park benches; given the pride instilled in him by his father's admonishments toward his brother—_don't cry! don't whine! hush up!_—Noatak never built up the will to beg for food. While the city offered more diversity than the whites and blues of his old home, nobody enjoyed that prosperity when fear hovered over their minds.

Most of the kids darting around the streets couldn't even afford shoes, let alone defend themselves like Noatak could. If he wanted, he could make those vendors with their suspicious glowers faint and pilfer whatever he wished, but then he'd have that nudge of guilt, that attachment to not-so-far away regrets when he nudged up against the other street kids he shared a rain-pooled alley corner with.

It was an entirely selfish reason. _Why can't I use bloodbending for good? _he asked himself. He'd take the food and spread it out; but there'd never be enough for them all, and it'd be an exhausting amount of guilt and fighting he'd rather avoid.

So he starved. Surely his father would be proud, and that sickened the ache in his belly further as he ghosted by on bread crumbs and water from the park where people dumped their empty fire flake bags and other litter. Wrapped into himself with his back hunched, a cruelly humorous part of himself recognized his desire to be like them, to shed things they didn't want, to shrug off problems that didn't pertain to them as easily as flinging trash around and letting the wind turn it into someone else's burden.

But oh, he was so, so tempted to rupture the organs of the skittering spider-rats that lurked within the alleys so he could cook them for dinner in the fires the orphans lit at night, to steal the scraps the other children fought over, to follow after the gang members who whooped and hollered down the streets in a flurry of disturbed street rubbish as civilians huddled past and plead for a spot in one of their operations.

Masquerading as an orphaned nonbender while so many couldn't help their status as a nonbender, Noatak attempted to find work, but he was too young, too filthy and "fresh off the boat." Too new to the city and too bright-eyed.

Then came the day three men in fine suits heckled a merchant and shoved him to the ground. They reminded him of his father. Noatak said nothing, but the attack was in blinding daylight, out in the open with bustling citizens making sure to turn their heads and swerve around the trouble.

Noatak often hung around an establishment that gave very small portions of food to the indigent for free. They had very little funding though, which meant they provided scant resources. Of course, there were those who looked at the destitute and scoffed. Why did they keep their lazy butts on the sidewalk when they could use the energy they had for begging and doubling over in hunger to find a job to scrounge up some yuans?

He was supposed to be a nonbender. He swore to never bloodbend again to spite his father's ghost once it manifested to haunt him, but Noatak ran to the tall men with smiles like hungry wolf-bats and bowled one of them over.

Everything was a flurry of movement. Fire crossed his vision, pain as another person fell beside him. Then there was the shouting. First, from the assailants, then from places all around him. He crawled off of the body he'd plunged into after he heard a sickening crack, realizing it had come from his own head seconds ago and the whole world sluggishly rotated.

He didn't understand why he did that; Yakone would tell him to let the weak fend for themselves. They deserved whatever happened for not standing up for themselves.

Like Tarrlok.

(yet Noatak always defended his brother before he abandoned him)

If they died, it was the natural cycle of things: the weak were weeded out by the strong. Noatak's only regret was that he hadn't asked if that was what happened when the Avatar stole Yakone's bending away.

But everything that happened to Noatak—for the past few months as he thinned to the point of almost snapping in half—hardly stung despite the complete collapse of his innocence. In a way, it was like looking at his reflection in a tiny rain drop. Momentary, distorted, something far away. Suddenly he wasn't the prodigy son of an infamous madman; he was as expendable as any other drifter glared at by those with tidy visages and fouled eyes.

Noatak wasn't certain if that was good or bad. He was bred to tame—to tame the most powerful being in existence. So, either his state as a filthy urchin exemplified his lack of corruption or signified all of those years he wasted crafting himself into someone cunning and worthy enough to rule over the Avatar.

Yes, he ran away from his village so he wouldn't be a tool, but being a tool who exerted power was all Noatak knew. He didn't know how to deal with this harsh freedom he'd always wanted because part of him would always craze the moments of acceptance his father flashed to him with smiles and nods. Even with the hot, hot enmity bred into him from both his stained bloodline and his bitterness.

Those had been the only times he was worth anything.

He wasn't fulfilled with disconnected, honest stints of labor that left him rubbing at his hands as they cracked and his flesh splintered; he wasn't fulfilled because everyone else unafflicted by hardships nodded in approval to those who worked to no avail, put out into the streets because of technological advancements and disadvantages due to the accident of not being born a bender. They knew their place.

Part of Noatak hated himself for acting weak when he could exert strength over all of those who snickered at what a pitiful display he and the rest of the scruffy lowlifes were.

He detested it when there were noble people less fortunate and less gifted who strode through life with far more resilience and patience. They had a right to be indignant; Noatak inflicted all of this pain upon himself. He pretended to lord above his brother, but at least Tarrlok stood up for his own sniveling morals. Inside, Noatak was just as dirty and worthless as his current physical state. He carried out his father's will without question, hungering for approval.

"Officer, help! Help!" There were several shouts, sounds of a struggle above him, and Noatak forgot where he was. There was a hand on his shoulder, and he wasn't sure if it was real. And then it's gone, yanked away. A skidding noise disrupted his repose.

_Noatak? Noatak? Please, come back!_

All he knew was that he was suddenly warm after months of a cold that tangled itself within the core of his bones, settling in his lungs like a slimy eel.

Dizzy, his vision skewed and reddened, disoriented. Noatak had thoughts flash by as if he wasn't really there in the midst of a scuffle with is two-second involvement. Self-effacing thoughts. Essentially, he knocked out one thug and ended up giving himself a concussion in the process.

He stood, his knees throbbing. He had to press himself against the store wall to keep himself from tumbling onto the sidewalk again. Wonderful. All it took was one fall and he was down. But the fighting around him seemed to stop. He'd been prepared to feel fire licking his skin, ready to have the earth pounce up and slam him through a window.

As usual, there was an emptiness. Head buzzing. Stomach numb with an uneasy resignation, a feeling worse than pain, like when one's limbs go numb from an obstruction in the blood flow.

The benders with their fancy clothes were all lying on the ground, restrained by metal cords wrapped around their bodies. How long was he out? The man being threatened was standing, blood pouring from his nose, clothes and hair disheveled.

"Dad, are you okay?" a girl asked, placing a hand on her father's shoulder. She appeared to be older than Noatak with premature lines creased under her eyes. She was holding what looked like—a polished, broken stick?

He peered at the ground and saw an object. Part of a broom. She'd hit one of the thugs with a broom so violently that it'd snapped in half.

Standing in front of the young woman and man, Noatak knew that, despite their clothes being patched up and missing buttons, he looked terrible. He smelled worse. Oh, how his father would laugh at this lean and flimsy boy.

"Did you do all of this?" he asked hoarsely. She responded by regarding him as if first seeing him. Well, he was flattened against the pavement for a good portion of their first impression.

"The officer came pretty quickly and wrapped them up," the girl said, eying him with amusement that heated Noatak's blood, "but thanks for busting in." Noatak was fondly reminded of the time a cop harassed him at the park, pulling at the hood of his attire—a threadbare jacket—as his head snapped back and left him dizzy. The officer who incapacitated the three men never came forward to inquire about the well-being of the victims.

The store owner dabbed under his nose with his sleeve. "What's your name, son? You look pretty worn down."

_Thought you could last without me? I made you!_

"I'm nobody." His own voice sounded strange. He'd hardly used it after his last words to his brother, and it occurred to him that Tarrlok probably thought his brother was wolf bait. Fitting.

"Well 'Nobody'," the store owner said gruffly, "that was quite a stunt you pulled."

"I didn't do anything."

"You did more than any other normal person tried to do."

Normal? Had he truly gone so far as to be a normal person? Was it normal for a nonbender to be weak and destitute in the streets? Most of those who huddled around in shelters or in the open (the shelters often filled up too quickly and had no means of expanding with their lax funding) were nonbenders, but he hadn't seen the other side of the city.

At home, while nonbenders couldn't be as efficient as healers, they could still hunt and fish and protect. Both women and men could learn these skills, and Noatak never introduced himself to the possibility of a large divide between nonbenders and benders until he entered the city. Now, it was all too obvious with the threats and extortion.

"You're probably hurt—" the girl started.

"No, please. Leave me alone." Spirits, he was capable of bloodbending his own simpering little brother, and they were speaking down to him as if he could cause no harm, as if _he_ was the one in trouble.

The girl stepped away from her father—his expression grave (and sympathetic?)—and put a hand on Noatak's shoulder. He recoiled. "You need help. Do you have a home?"

Noatak tasted the blood on his tongue, biting back a retort that of course he did—he simply enjoyed strolling around emaciated and grimy. "No."

She clutched him gently by the elbow and wrapped her arm around his to guide him into the store, which had the pungent smell of healing salves that reminded him of his mother, and he swallowed and forced himself not to heave.

"Well, I'm Ama, and my father and I would be more than willing to help you. So, what's your real name, Mister Nobody?" He hadn't said his name in so long. All it made him think about was how it sounded when his father barked it out, which _then _brought up Tarrlok's reedy pleas for his brother to come back, for him to help him, to not leave him alone to deal with their father.

_You don't deserve this. You did nothing to earn this._

(Was that his father or himself?)

* * *

The home of the merchant always smelled of unctions and spices. Noatak never knew that snow and the wind could have a scent, but they did. Natural, the mingling scents of animals and the toil of village men. Heady. And now he missed them.

This family's house was suffocating. They only had room for an orphaned boy because their nephew recently died in a street fight; though the father and mother never spoke of it, Ama stated that he'd been dealing opium.

Sometimes men with oily voice would come to their house and give propositions, ultimatums. Noatak asked if it had anything to do with the nephew, and Ama laughed and told him that they swung their threats and fists long before her cousin made his mistakes.

The potency of the herbal fragrance came to be when their youngest child of fourteen months became ill. The child laid dormant on a small bed of white sheets. He almost looked like he was dead on a snowy island, on an expanse of whiteness dwarfing the grays of his complexion; that shouldn't make Noatak laugh, but the thought of a snowy island protruding from the floor was too ridiculous for him not to find some odd humor in it.

When Noatak scrubbed himself clean and cut off the rats' nests in his hair—butchering the locks that went far past his shoulder now that he no longer wore a Water Tribe hairdo—he didn't recognize himself. His eyes were shrunken in those gaping hollows sunken above his gaunt cheeks. The scalding water soothed him. His mother always said that hot water kills germs. Perhaps it would cure him.

The family, consisting of a middle-aged couple and their two children, tried to engage him in conversation, and he grew weary of attempts to dissect his past. They cared—they wanted to find out how his parents died, how long he'd been alone. Noatak couldn't answer because he honestly had no idea how long. He heard them talk amongst themselves and chatter about what must've set the poor young man out into the streets like so many disheartened vagrants searching for some respite, a reprieve from their hardships while fat cats lounged around licking up the dough of toiling workers.

He did chores and ran errands without being goaded, but he was such a reticent character that they believed something truly damaging must have melted him into this small shell, masking all of the cracks from being twisted after so many instances of pressure.

Once Noatak said to Ama, the girl who broke her broom on the thug's head, "You seem pretty old to be their daughter." The couple didn't appear that aged. He'd be amazed if the wife had hit forty; she'd birthed a child recently enough, and her complexion, while overcast with a dismal resignation, was hardly marred by the blossoming vestiges of time.

"My parents had me young." Ama's lips contorted into an exaggerated smile that didn't match the darkening in her eyes. She was old enough to start out on her own, but she stayed to help her parents out. Her younger brother needed her to stay and coddle him. The difference between her circumstance and Noatak's—other than her willing chains—was that her brother couldn't amend his captivity.

Sitting at the rickety old dining table with the family, Noatak tilted his head down. They sat in silence. In clean, if not faded and ill-fitting, clothes handed down to him, Noatak tapped his fingers against his breakfast bowl and sweat broke out on his forehead.

Unlike when he bloodbent powerless animals with callous precision. No sweating or worries then. He'd just curled up in his bed later as he demanded that his emotions rein themselves in like a pack of furry blood-sacks.

(He was always too busy keeping his brother afloat to properly break apart.)

He'd lift his head up, dry his brother's tears, despite the voice in his head that began to sound startlingly like his father: _you're weak. _

_Stupid. Why do I have to keep sheltering you? When will you actually stand up for yourself?_

Ready to snap, there'd been a day when protecting his brother came naturally to him. Noatak could make wolves bow to his will as they whimpered and gazed at him with milky eyes like a rabbit-doe's, but his brother was always cowed. Never biting back.

It didn't take anything to alter Tarrlok into submissiveness. Noatak needed to save him. In a day where a snowstorm brewed, Tarrlok fell off of a steep incline and landed on one of his legs. It crumpled under him, and Noatak couldn't heal it in time, so he had to carry his brother home.

One argument, one outburst. All he had to say: "I should've left you in that storm!" Tarrlok burst into tears. No doubt he'd run to his mother—well, _their_ mother, Noatak would force himself to admit—while never telling her the actual problem. Even in resentment, Tarrlok would never hurt his brother because he wanted Noatak to like him again so they could confide in each other like they did during the flippant days of play and laughter.

He wondered how Tarrlok was doing, what Yakone did to his little brother after Noatak bloodbent his father and left him in the snow. Considered whether Tarrlok trudged along the ice with his father's arms tossed around his shoulders (carrying far more weight on his meager frame than could be seen), if his brother fell onto the snow and shook his father's limp body, frantically peering up with the fleeting hope that Noatak would return to assist him like he always did.

_Don't leave, please!_

With one thought, he could render the family who took him off the streets completely at his will. And his father's memory, the ghost curled in the back of his head like a squirming, fat maggot-leech, would shudder in approval. He could make the father bow before him; he could make the merchant's daughter—

The bowl slipped from his clammy hands. It clattered onto the floor without breaking, its viscous contents splattering onto the wood.

Why couldn't things had stayed the way they were? Why did he have to be a waterbender with the temptation of destroying lives when his circumstances didn't suit him?

"Sorry. Sorry, I'll pick it up." He bent down, and his eyes were blinded by tears. No, he wasn't supposed to cry. Warriors didn't cry. Soldiers didn't cry. Killers didn't cry.

There was some shuffling, and the mother bent down to his level to help him. They worked to figure him out, why he bore this gloominess on his shoulders, coiled around his innards and throat until words were suppressed, but he was inscrutable. Noatak didn't meet her eyes as he scooped the bowl across the floor to assist in cleaning up the gruel.

* * *

When the family cared for the ailing child, the smothering silence further pervaded the household. The boy opened his eyes at times, but some of the sounds he made as he breathed were awful, as if he could barely inhale without pain coursing through him. When his eyelids flickered open, his eyes were glazed, and the lighting in the room was so poor that Noatak couldn't decipher what color the child's eyes were.

He placed the wadded bedsheets into the clothes-basket before returning to the room. Ama sat by her brother's side, knees propped up on the hardwood floor, brushing the hair out of his face.

"What's his name?" Noatak leaned against the doorframe. This child had done nothing wrong, and he wouldn't get a second chance like those who receive then and squander their luck. That may have been pessimistic and contrary to the family's hopes, but he could sense dying animals, ones too injured that their pack abandoned them or their mothers refused to lend their milk to them.

She told him. With a solemn nod, Ama added, "It means 'peace' in an old language."

"Do you need anything?"

"No, there's nothing you can do." A part of Noatak bristled at that statement. How dare she say something so insolent? She had no idea what he was capable of. Then part of his wanted to be anything but a coward, to mend what was impossible for even the best healers to fix.

"I'm going to rest," Noatak said, standing in the doorway with his shoulders drooping.

"You need to take something for your nightmares." He slipped away, uncomfortable with the concern.

* * *

Noatak woke up in the middle of the night with chills, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. With a strange ache behind his eyes, he had the vague sense of abruptly escaping a bad dream, yet he couldn't dredge up what he'd torn away from. He rarely slept easily, but nights in an actual bed spurred bouts of deep sleep.

Wind and rain clattered harshly upon the roof, the wind sometimes impersonating the moans of a moribund turtle-seal in torment after a spear harpooned itself into its belly.

Oh yes, the beautiful memories of home.

That was when he made an uneasy decision after the slowly trickling days of watching a family dwelling in bleakness.

Without a sound, he got off of the bed. The room had no windows, and the wallpaper was crinkling in parts where rain had seeped through the ceiling. He moved carefully, silent as he approached his destination.

He imagined his mother's eyes. His jaw tensed. When he, Tarrlok, and their father returned from their "hunting trips," she gave them a bleak smile. Even without the knowledge of her husband's past, she saw the chasm between her sons. Tarrlok's downcast eyes and the slouching of his shoulders. The steeliness in Noatak's demeanor.

The room was pitch black, but because of his dear father's lessons, Noatak learned how to detect heartbeats as if he were partly inside the other person, stuck within their ribs and reaching out. He could feel the lurching of a broken heart inside of the child's bedroom, a torpid thudding that in no way mimicked the quickness of his own heart. He willed his heart to calm, and it obeyed.

His intents were good. His intents were good.

He moved a thumb against the boy's forehead, inhaling the thick scent of perspiration. Eyes dimming, he pressed his fingertips against the ill child's shoulder blades, taking deep breaths as he guided both of his hands down lightly to the boy's chest. Noatak closed his eyes, and he could almost envision what was inside the child from his many training sessions with his father where he had to touch and see what living creatures were composed of on the inside of their bodies. Tarrlok protested killing the animals, and Noatak promptly shushed him.

He paused. A mass of things congested in the child's extremities, festering after several months, black amidst the pulsing red. Thick and obstructive, almost alive. A slow death with nothing but prolonged suffering inadvertently caused by those trying to heal him.

"I'm sorry, brother," Noatak said to the child named Amon, though his words weren't meant for the dying boy, and he closed his eyes and breathed in rhythm with Amon's thick, slow heartbeat. There was no kinship with the child, though people clung to meek and helpless things, like abandoned, cute squirrel-hound pups or children with bright, empty bead-eyes.

The child named Amon died underneath the palm of his hand, and the thumping that soon grew audible and reverberated in Noatak's ears flickered and died like a lantern's golden flame. But it was still heard dully, similar to how lullabies stay even when the singer has passed.

He forced himself back to his room, not sensing his own legs as he collapsed and sobbed, pulling the bedsheet into his fists and putting it against his cheek. Pulling it over himself, hoping to suffocate.

Cold again. It was the second time here that his composure completely shattered like thinning ice tread upon by fur-lined boots.

* * *

Noatak couldn't bring himself to abandon the family, yet again torn into another broken family. He didn't want a place to belong anymore, another thing to sully; he wanted to be on his own. Becoming someone new, not a filthy little child with abilities that could only hurt others.

_You liked that, didn't you?_

No, Noatak took no satisfaction in ending that boy's pain—because either way meant the family would be severed. He wanted to console them with the fact that Amon was no longer in pain, but their grief was more than tangible.

He hated himself for not being remorseful. He didn't enjoy it, but it was the most useful thing he did to alleviate the suffering in Republic City. The gazes and downturned heads in this home when trouble arrived and the father's insistences that they never answer the door. Just come get him. He would handle it.

But no, one person could not make a difference.

_This is the first time you've killed, boy. Aren't you proud?_

He had no family, and it was for the best.


	2. Tarrlok I

Today is most certainly the day he will die.

The muscles in Tarrlok's hands clench, his posture sculpted into a permanent slouch. His bones weigh down like fabric soaked in water. Yes, it's odd that the self-assured man that he once was should contemplate the end without it ruffling his—well, his formerly—perfectly arranged hair.

On the surface, nothing daunted him when he was on the Council. Tarrlok the Esteemed Councilman consumed his life with schmoozing and making allies. Always at an arm's length, never getting too close. Sating himself with material goods. It pleased him to be the freshest, most photogenic member of the Council.

He would restore tranquility. He wouldn't go against the law like his father did; he'd be the law.

Part of him cannot reconcile the two images of the ghastly phantom who worked to destroy the city and the brother who protected him and crept out of bed to soothe his brother with stories when Tarrlok couldn't sleep.

(being the _weakling_ that he was—is)

His dreams then were often coated with blood and whimpers once their father revealed his true identity, and soon came the time when they seethed with ice. In the dreams during an endless period when Noatak could no longer console him, he'd be running and searching for his brother, but the dream would conclude with no resolution.

Yakone would look at him without truly meeting his eyes. Once, he turned away and said, "Sometimes I wonder why I ever needed a second son." There'd been no animosity or impatience in his voice, only resignation.

If it ever comes to pass, killing his brother will not be an act of hate, but rather something bred out of love. A blackened, festering love. While his notions about Noatak are from the skeletons of a boy long dead for twenty-five years, he knows his brother fled to escape their father's influence. It's only kind-hearted to extend a hand to his brother, a way out of the fight between nature and will.

_It's been almost twenty-five years. You don't know him. Then again, you never really did._

* * *

Tarrlok could not bring himself to cry when his brother left, when he would go days without his father acknowledging him. It was not that Yakone did not notice Tarrlok; he simply preferred that he didn't.

As if to preserve himself, it was as if Tarrlok lost the ability to weep, as if all of the reserves had dried. Yakone mulled around, and Tarrlok never thought he'd see the day when his father's head would hang, and he abstained from arguing with Yakone. Getting him to realize that they all needed each other, that he could repair this and make his second chance work.

But there were some fires that could be doused by neither time nor forgiveness.

With some hurtful naivete, he ascertained that this would shock his father into becoming good, much like the tales of Firelord Zuko's uncle. Maybe his mother's insight would break through. His mother always gave off the aura of someone much older and accustomed to disappointments. Her lips would tighten, her forehead crinkling. Never sagging or drooping, but engaging the horizon from miles away and daring it to deliver another blow.

The horizon dimmed, pulling away, though fate was the most honest entity in their lives. It never failed to do as they predicted.

No longer did her son's words cause her to smile. The only time she would smile was when Yakone and Tarrlok returned from their futile searches. A thing of no happiness. That same stupid, futile hopefulness that brought worse tidings than acceptance or certainty. When she stood from the folded clothes and smiled, Tarrlok hung his head. During the searches, his father never said a word.

Tarrlok pushed back the thought that, all along, Noatak was her preferred son. Of course, that was a self-pitying, self-absorbed notion. It knotted him up inside to not be able to ask Noatak questions, to not be able to have someone to confide with. While his mother comforted him, she only witnessed what appeased her. In her mind, she had a capable, trustworthy husband and two talented sons.

He wanted his brother back, he really did. Though Noatak talked to his brother as if he was a burden, the house grew smaller, almost suffocating, as if the walls compressed to overwhelm him in his guilt.

(His brother was dead—he just knew it.)

He could've said something different, could have run with him, could have died with him. Yet he chose to help his father. A warm, slick, dark thought consumed him: he should have just left his father in the snow to die. To be eaten by the wolves. Wouldn't that have been funny? Then he and Noatak would escape, and perhaps they would die, and all of this would end. The scenario played through his head during every waking hour.

But his mother would've spent the rest of her life alone, whittling away with her low humming and baskets of unused boys' clothes she'd store away (never throwing them out). That quelled his suspicions.

She missed a good portion of her sons' lives after they reached the age for "male bonding." She wanted a daughter so badly. Boys took a considerable heaping of patience and made the mother more ill when she carried them. Strangely enough, her firstborn gave her little trouble until about the last month. Yakone doted on her to the point of madness.

Tarrlok was an unexpected child. Yes, they predicted that there would be more, and three years was certainly enough time, but the pregnancy transpired months after a miscarriage. After haphazardly scrubbing the blood out of their bedsheets and the dejection, after having her only infant son play the flute—he'd seen her do it before—off-tune and ask in his limited vernacular if she'd ever be happy again, she expected the wait to be longer.

A month after the loss of the unborn child, Yakone held her head in his lap with uncharacteristic gentleness and cried for the first time in decades. For all of the control he garnered after those years in Republic City, it ate away at him to live around others he couldn't manipulate. He couldn't—he wouldn't—demand that she should start acting as he wished. Arja was one of the few good sides of him. So he stood by as she withdrew. Never deteriorating, but busying herself to regain her strength and the consistent ease of normalcy.

Her second son was never one for timeliness.

With this pregnancy came more emotional and physical complications. She was sick immediately, violently so. Always aching and chucking up her meals. Her husband complained that Noatak was never this much trouble, and she shook her head. She could handle the struggle if it meant a new addition to their family, someone for Noatak to play with. And she could sit and nod to herself in contentment as they threw snowballs at each other and fussed at her as little boys do.

The worst part though was the fear that she'd lose this one. She begged to the spirits that she'd give birth to another healthy, happy baby that she could hold and love with all of her heart.

Tarrlok regarded his mother as if fragile glass composed every part of her, but she survived the time when her older brother died on a tiger-seal hunt (and Noatak's disappearance and very likely death brought an unspoken connection between them, something surrounding the loss of an older brother). She survived when she laid eyes on the mangled corpse, when her mother passed from sickness, when it all became too much to bear for her father, so he traveled to the edge of the land and drowned himself.

(his eyes heavy with peace)

All Arja sought was a stable family—something reliable, something that wouldn't leave her. But Arja was neither an individual of extraordinary wealth nor a bender; she could only wind the gears of her life through chance, hoping for no sand to slide into the cracks, and her obscurity slimmed her influence. She was not the Avatar, so fate batted its indurate blues only once at her before dismissing this forsaken hut in the ice when Tarrlok's father drew his last breath.

* * *

After Yakone died in the night, his mother told him the next morning with her voice even, taking her calloused fingers off of her drinking cup and pressing her palms to the table. There was that soft sadness, but as he put his hand on hers, she reciprocated the gesture with her other hand and beamed with that same smile that beckoned him to avert his eyes. She said it was okay to cry.

Tarrlok found himself to be quite surprised at his mother, and he wished it could be a pleasant surprise. During the stacking of his father's cairn after a particularly vicious snowstorm, she held her chin up. Despite the tensions between Yakone and his sons, his mother loved all of those under her roof.

Love was blind, after all. There was no creasing of her brow as she sat in front of the cairn dedicated to her husband; there was no peace either. All along, it was as if she recognized that it would come to this, and soon she'd be all alone. Tarrlok was almost grown, and she'd be setting the table for just herself. For now, tradition and public opinion insisted that he be the warrior. Constant, stoic.

All he wanted was his brother back—after three years without him. The call of duty stifled him. If he left, that meant his mother would be alone. And she wouldn't leave. Tarrlok once idly brought up the notion of departing from here. There were too many horrible memories for both of them. All she asked for was a cohesive family, but the spirits spared no heed. However, his mother laughed off his suggestion. His reason for wanting to run away (like he should've done when his brother offered) was her reason for staying. The land shaped her; it was her home. Anywhere else would pale in comparison, any emotions nothing more than cheap imitations.

Noatak didn't have his own cairn. It was bad luck, his mother said, to claim certainty of someone's demise without tangible proof. While Tarrlok held his mother's hand, he retreated into himself, not caring if it provoked jeering from the other village boys at this inopportune time.

Others gathered 'round the pile of stones, stood close together in the cold and sung mournful notes. They were supposed to be beautiful; Tarrlok regarded the music with as much reverence as he would the bellowing of a dying walrus-whale.

* * *

As the years passed, Tarrlok learned cleanliness. The other boys his age taunted him for being too effeminate. A mommy's boy. Well, who else was he supposed to belong to? Even when Yakone was alive, he didn't claim Tarrlok. He pondered if the child his wife miscarried was meant to be his _real _second, good son.

Tarrlok once arrived home with a bloody nose after he attacked one mongrel of a fellow when he referred to Arja as a numb-headed chicken-sow. If Noatak were here, he would huff and mumble, "Nice going, Turdlok."

Despite his mother's hollow glances and empty smiles, preferable to the slumped bones heavy with heartbreak, she still doted compulsively, wiped his chin and requested that they wear bibs during particularly messy meals. Tarrlok declined such maternal actions as gently as possible, but part of him resented (and shamefully so) the single, loosening tie that bound him here. If it weren't for her, he might be safe with his brother, dead or alive. Not drowned in a fog of ignorance, not strangled with compunction.

Always, he was glued to someone else's ambitions or cowering under the protection of somebody better than him. He was a young man now. Seventeen.

So, one day in their humble home, he knotted his fists on the wooden table and forced himself to look into his mother's eyes. Ever since Noatak's disapp—Noatak's death, he refrained from deciphering both of his parents' expressions, wary of what he would find.

"It's my fault he's gone," he said.

His mother hesitated before speaking. "W-What do you mean?" He blurred his vision so he couldn't fully render her response.

"It's my fault that Noatak's dead. I could've saved him."

He wanted her to accuse him, hate him like the wraiths that haunted his dreams. _You didn't save me. _Yes, then he could depart.

Instead of denying that Noatak was dead in her frequent instances of denial, she shook her head gravely. "You were just a boy," she said, her voice level. Were. At least she admitted that much. "You couldn't help it."

He stood and cursed himself, cursed the fact that she wouldn't lash out at him. Only peer upwards at him with large eyes. Growing up in the Northern Water Tribe, he and his brother heard tales spun through blood and gnashing teeth.

Yet his mother murmured stories of a different brand of strength, a strength imbued with quiet acceptance and constant dutifulness. Princess Yue, who wanted life and the caress of passion, yet she put the wills and decrees of her people first. As a young child, Noatak was enamored with the story of someone so altruistic enough to put the needs of her subjects before her own—so enraptured in this figure that gave up her life, sacrificed her identity. Became a symbol. He'd lift his head up to gaze at the moon, entranced at how, unyielding, it rose in the center of darkness.

In a bout of redness and churning within his chest, Tarrlok threw his arms up. "I'm not helpless! And—a-and I can't stay here. Looking at all of this, looking at you—it's too much!"

A pause punctuated his shouting, and his heart raced traitorously. Arja straightened.

"I can't lose you too." Though clear wetness glazed her eyes, she didn't break down, and that stung most of all. As if she accepted this conclusion long ago. She'd end up alone, everyone running off. Unloved through no fault of her own—because fate was a matter she couldn't control.

"I can't stay here forever."

"I know it's been hard. I miss them too. Noatak was so brave, and your father was a good m—"

"He wasn't a good man!" Before he could stop himself, before regret claimed him, he continued, "He made us do bad things to animals, to each other. You didn't care. You turned your back on us when he took us out on our 'trips' and showed us how to torture and kill. Did you know he used to be a waterbender, but he got it taken away because he used it to hurt people?"

Instead of crying or bashfully ducking her head, her chin rose as she tilted her head. Her hands kneaded the cloth of her parka. "Why haven't you told me any of this before?" Why wasn't she surprised, her eyes widening in shock? Could she have garnered an inkling of what transpired all of those years and waited by?

"Because Dad was a monster. So was Noatak, and so am I. Not that you'd see that."

"Honey, no." She got out of her chair and moved to touch his shoulders. He edged away. "Tarrlok, you're sensitive and kind. I've seen that much. You'll always be my son, no matter what you do. I know you'll grow up to do miraculous things. It's in your nature."

_But it's not in my blood._

It's as if he yelled at thin air! The reserves temporarily flooding back into use, a damp, angry warmth spilling down his cheeks, Tarrlok, said, "No, you don't understand! You never will!" He stomped out, and any second his mother would cry because of him.

_Nice going, Turdlok._

Instead of following, Arja sat down and held back her weepiness. It wasn't her place to hinder his choices, and it wasn't as if his outburst was uncalled for.

* * *

Tarrlok languishes at the top of the temple for what seems like years. These past weeks, the rising turmoil, created an emphasis on Yakone's past crimes, his threat to the city. He simmered with the knowledge of Yakone's fate in his mind. Only he was cognizant of the entire truth, he thought. Smoldering with enmity and self-consciousness. He started off with only what he could carry when he arrived to the city, and he'd made it so far.

Then the Avatar threatened Tarrlok after she defeated him. Instead of explaining his plight then, he saved his own hide in this destructive spiral downwards, a descent that landed him in the none-too-welcoming arms of his brother.

Tarrlok longed to be the Aang in the tale about his father and the Avatar. Yet—yet—even now, he reserves a great deal of his pity for himself, but reflecting back brings the wish that he will one day be able to properly apologize to his mother.

Hearing footsteps approaching, his heart tenses.

Amon. Noatak. The only returning visitors he's had are Equalists who deliver food and water to him wordlessly, but it's inevitable that he and his brother will have another confrontation, although there will be no fists in this one. Not only because Tarrlok's lost one of the few things that gave him worth, but because he's grown tired, accepting.

Tarrlok whispered his name when Amon discarded his body into the vehicle, but if Amon heard him, he paid no mind. He did it again when he landed on the floor of his cell, but Amon turned away without a word. Amon's lieutenant questioned what that meant, and Amon waved it off as nonsense. Prior to the takeover of Air Temple Island, he'd spent a good part of the time unconscious, waking up enshrouded in darkness, unaware of his surroundings. The pang of hunger and thirst—he'd been so alone. Never one for companionship, Tarrlok wouldn't be missed by anyone.

For hours after the Lieutenant and his brother dumped him here, he questioned his own reliability many times. The sensation of paralysis, the numbing of his mind when Amon gripped his neck—is he sure it's Noatak? Why would Noatak lead a terrorist organization full of nonbenders when he'd crippled his own father with bending and raved about the power the Avatar possessed?

Because they were happy before bending? Then they became weapons, sharpened and tempered through resentment. If Noatak just traveled straight to Republic City, there's no telling what he witnessed. Once when Tarrlok moseyed down a less prestigious street, two children scampered by with tattered rags for garments, chasing a mangy spider-rat for dinner.

A hooded figure enters the attic space, and the lantern light guided by the figure's hand outlines the bright cruelty of a mask. Amon has something else balanced in his other hand, a tray of fresh fruit. Oh, the touching fragments of brotherly love. With any luck, the mangoes are laced with poison.

His gait no longer resembles that of an unfazed spirit. Tarrlok can't pinpoint the definite shift, but Amon no longer strikes him as inhuman. Yet his muscles seize when Amon sets the lantern down and puts the tray in front of the cell, arching his back forward as he kneels.

Without a word, Amon lowers his hood and begins unclasping the straps that hold his mask in place. The thing taunts Tarrlok, as it did when Amon advanced toward him while he bloodbent, cold and unperturbed. When he removes it, Tarrlok's eyes widen through the hair falling in front of his eyes. At the sight of a long, rough scar running across Amon's countenance, it's as if his throat closes. Maybe his suspicion is wrong, but he hasn't seen Noatak in so long, he can't—

Amon takes the sleeve of his uniform and rubs it against his face. Just like that, the scar smears and lessens in intensity, until Amon's features are merely dusted with color. In the harsh glow, Tarrlok startles as if seeing his father's ghost emerging from those grainy photographs in the old, yellowed newspapers. Blank-faced policemen leading Yakone into where the trial would be held, the very place where Tarrlok bloodbent a small group of people in order to escape judgment.

His father exuded smug restraint as he entered, but Tarrlok felt nothing as he exited with sagging shoulders and unfocused eyes. He and his father shared the trait of making nuisances of themselves; Noatak and his father shared confidence.

"This wasn't how I expected for us to reunite, but, well,"Amon says, his eyes almost colorless, "I didn't expect us to meet again. Imagine my surprise when I heard that Tarrlok of the Northern Water Tribe was running for office. I never thought you'd have the stomach for politics, but I suppose it's in your nature to be my shadow." There's no hint of mockery in his tone, only candidness. His brother is an inconvenience, a role stagnated throughout decades.

_He may very well kill me_, Tarrlok thinks, though he can't muster enough worry for it to bother him. If he stays alive, what does he have waiting for him? Imprisonment in one shape or another. Here he is, unkempt after his brother ripped his life away. Noatak finished what Tarrlok began, and he'll be the one to come out unscathed, the one whose boots don't slide on the ice, the one who doesn't fall face-first into the snow.

He builds up the nerve to expel his hatred, to holler at his brother, this villain, the man who's destroyed him, but his voice splinters thin. "I thought you were dead."

"It was for the best. I doubt you would've been proud of what I'd become. I'm assuming that's true now, but that disappointment is shared." Tarrlok shakes his head, his mind barely immersed in this bizarre scenario. He wonders if he's gone insane. He's forgotten and repented—oh, he's tried. Not to be bound, not to recede into a shroud of madness. An invisible puppet-master dances him around, the nimble fingers manipulating the strings to wrap around his neck. Over the years, the strings tightened, his body falling an inch further.

"We're both cowards who have used bloodbending."

"Luckily, I've outlawed bending, so soon the city will be equalized, and the crimes against innocent people will cease." Noatak glowers, though his voice remains unmoved by emotion. "I am not a coward."

"I never knew you had such a way with words. You hide behind a mask." Tarrlok's lips curl.

"You hid behind your title and your money, though it's not as if it's unusual, given our blood. It was our father who set us on this path. And the Avatar."

"We can't blame them for our mistakes." The words ring false. How childish he feels, coming undone at the will of an adolescent girl. If she hadn't threatened his life, he wouldn't have resorted to bloodbending. Even Korra could see it in him, the remnants of Yakone.

He doesn't know what happened to her after Am—Noatak, his own brother, captured him. He assumes she escaped.

"It seems you've bested me again," Tarrlok says, his voice pitched in this sardonic lilt. Though he's been reduced to nothing, he can't help but appreciate the terrible humor in all of this. Here they are, two completely different extremes, and they're still just like their father ordained. His brother, fighting bending by being the most potent bender alive. It's too much. "You were always the prodigy, the master bloodbender."

A brief realization almost takes all of the despair away: his mother will be overjoyed if she discovers that Noatak is alive. Yes, he can envision them trekking home, his heart stuttering as their family is patched up.

The elation ends swiftly. Tarrlok can feel the end coming shortly after this collision. She won't see either of them again. She'll dust the floor and wonder why her son hasn't sent her a letter in so long, and perhaps the Avatar herself will arrive on her doorsteps to give her the news. If Korra cares enough, though her sons are reviled.

But their mother will no doubt be forgotten as their infamous memories are forcibly hushed. She's not preferred, a blessed person chosen by fate or the spirits.

Quite the contrary. Seasons will pass, festivals will harken gaudy joy around her, and she'll peer endlessly at the flickering lights streaming toward the horizon and ask what she did wrong this time.

Upon considering what his mother would think of this predicament and his recent actions, Tarrlok bows his head, all dignity lost.

"Our father wanted us to claim Republic City, and we have. Well, you bested me—beat me to it, it seems. You were his favorite, after all."

The lines in Noatak's visage, more pronounced when cast in such a contrasting chiaroscuro of light and darkness, deepen as he scowls. "_You_ are the tyrant! I never would have resorted to this if the Council wasn't lax in preserving the rights of anyone who can't intimidate their way into success."

Exhaling and composing himself with measured calmness, Tarrlok replies, "Oh yes, that rigmarole you reserve for your puppets. Please. You enjoyed exerting power over the helpless long before the Council grew weak."

"I was going to change that." Grabbing hold of the cell bars, the old Noatak speaks then, confused and lost, and the dark thought crosses Tarrlok that he will never gauge whether or not his brother genuinely cares or imitates with mercurial precision what he expects will convince others to trust and obey him.

He wonders if Noatak really did perish in that storm. His eyebrows crease and he says, "Our mother is still alive, if you care enough to know."

Noatak gives him a look between sadness and contempt, the mistake of this reunion finally sinking in. Eyes bright like their mother's, though she's hardly a part of him.

Tarrlok surmises that Noatak expected himself to do most of the talking. Anything else means a lack of control, and Noatak reacts to that about as well as the former Firelord's sister did. Why does Noatak live a lie like this? So much trouble for a truth that would've stirred hundreds into pitying him.

Then again, perhaps a reprieve from his superiority is what will lessen the hurt. He grabs the mask and stands to retreat, picking up the lantern before exiting the room and extinguishing the light to ensure his visit will remain in the shadows.

"As long as our father is dead." Tarrlok's brother nods to himself, not waiting for an answer concerning his mother's living conditions. The reserves are still dried, Tarrlok reassures himself.

After all of these years, they resume their brotherly bickering. Who says that time doesn't heal all wounds?

* * *

His mother persisted in smiling, her eyes distant, and he spent his days helping her around the house in silence. Communication was never his family's strong suit. When he returned after darting out, she crushed him into a hug and demanded that he never scare her like that again. The implications were clear. Her sons never seemed to fare well after running into the tundra, though farewells were not unheard of.

She only knew her husband under his false identity, and it seemed that not even the truth would crush the barrier to her illumination. He hadn't told her Yakone's real name, and they never brought up that conversation again. It seemed his family lugged around myriad sets of identities.

Tarrlok didn't like her real name. It meant "ashes." Ashes reminded him of dead things, but his mother insisted that, in the Fire Nation, ashes were seen as a symbol for perseverance and resurrection. When he asked her what it was a symbol for in the Northern Water Tribe, she gave him a faint smile and told him that she needed to go to the market to buy some sea prunes. Perhaps she would even go into the city for the plump ones they didn't sell in their small village.

A day came when he stood in the snow and marveled at the beauty of the spirit lights, these strands of phantasmagorical colors that sometimes stretched across the sky, fluid and pouring through the fabric of the night like spilled spirits. The crunch of the snow behind him signaled his mother's presence. She stayed beside her son, hands tucked into her sleeves.

"Fires are smothered if they don't have air," she said, "and it's freedom that makes them burn the brightest."

He looked over at her, not catching the entirety of her expression. Tarrlok towered over his mother now. "Mom, are you okay?"

"I can't keep you locked up here forever. Your father and brother are dead," she said, her voice wavering as she turned to face him, "but I'd be killing you by trapping you away from the world."

"Mom. . . ." Reciprocating her action, he then cradled her chin in his hands. She smiled, placing a hand on his arm as tears skimmed down her cheeks. He choked up himself, but he steeled himself to say his departing words.

"I'll be back," Tarrlok told her, placing a kiss on her cheek. "I promise."

* * *

Tarrlok sighs. His hands against his temple, the wall digging into his back, he resigns himself to his fate. Noatak hasn't returned since their spat. If he doesn't die here, stewing in his own filth, he'll die with his brother.

If he has the chance. It has to be fated—that two brothers torn apart should meet again in such a way.

Footsteps ascend the stairs, and his brother enters. Before he crossed the threshold, Tarrlok swears that he heard shuffling and grunting, the sound of Noatak placing something on the stairs. He masks his surprise.

Noatak lowers his hood and removes the mask, saying, "Good afternoon, brother." The fake scar is not present. Tarrlok tenses, and his brother no doubt senses his blood racing as he approaches Tarrlok.

Why is he back so soon? The Avatar and her friend said something about a rally. Had it started? Had Korra made it in time? Leaning forward, Tarrlok notes that Noatak smells heavily of copper and smoke.

"I'm sorry for what I had to do to you." _Had_ to do? Yes, no matter how things change, it's always Tarrlok who screws up. "I hope that one day you'll find it in yourself to forgive me."

Well, Tarrlok had said he never wanted to bloodbend again. At least his brother maintained some consideration.

_I hope that one day you'll find it in yourself to see me as your brother and not your pawn._

Tarrlok bites back a laugh. That day will never arrive.

"The Avatar found you, and you told her about our past," Noatak says coldly.

Tarrlok smirks. "I must've been suffering from some sort of delirium."

"You had the right to hurt me after what I did."

_I'm supposed to die today._

Tarrlok's lips tighten against his teeth, a reaction common in his mother when one of them misbehaved. He'll never understand his brother, who has never been a consistent figure. Protective, yet distant. This is all Tarrlok's fault—he had it coming, but then it's an unfair act that Tarrlok has every right to be indignant about.

He holds back his surprise when Noatak unlocks the cell door. His infrequent attempts at amicability only distance Tarrlok's comprehension of him, though there's nothing to say Noatak can read himself sufficiently either.

"We're leaving. We can start over—have a second chance."

The Avatars are weak. They never take action, and that's what allowed for this to happen. Aang refused to kill Yakone, and Korra has failed to locate Amon. If there is one attribute that suits both Noatak and Tarrlok, it's being proactive. The Avatar doesn't (didn't? oh spirits, he never wanted it to come to that) just remind Tarrlok of himself with her hotheadedness; to her fierce protectiveness to her blinding temper to the mundane things like how she styled her hair, he'd seen his adolescent brother before his supposed death. It's rude to bring up in civil conversations—such similarities teenage girls have with deceased brothers, so he kept such thoughts hidden. As usual.

Once, he hated her, but it conflicted with his begrudging admiration. No matter his struggles to overcome dissent, she combated him. He couldn't break her, and perhaps, being the most important being in the world, she'd get the best of his brother as well. Prove Tarrlok wrong in thinking that Noatak is the most powerful bender alive. With any luck, she'll return. They won't escape and Tarrlok can only have his own blood on his hands.

What happened to her? He'd hoped his brother's defeat would usher in redemption because of his assistance. Tarrlok's reason to live would be accomplished. For the sake of saving his mother the pain of living with two deranged sons roaming around and ruining lives, he will die without guilt, though he's been preparing himself for this possibility: he'll have to murder his brother as well. Preferably in a manner that kills both of them. The temptation to corrupt is too great. This is the only way.

The only way. He may be forgiven—or he may be forgotten. Either way, it's auspicious. The prospect of dying harkens no fear, only the concentrated relief that years of failed retention and abusing his power will finally end. In retrospect, he's convinced that killing himself is neither dishonorable nor selfish. It'll be the most selfless thing he's ever done for the world. It's a noble deed to serve as the last page of this sad story.

Tarrlok stands, and he almost gives out right then. It's been so long since he's slept well or moved a great deal.

"Like Yakone?" The promise of a new start entices him, but he's seen what that did to his father: nothing. A new beginning extends his life as a tool, an empty mannequin. All he seeks in life is the end, where the world will be better off once Yakone's bloodline runs dry. Yes, it's also Arja's bloodline, but it seems that her side isn't potent enough to quell her sons' urges to manipulate and command.

Yet it all arrives too soon. A month ago, he was lounging in his spacious home. Now, he's ready to die. It's time. It's his belief that people's essences rot if they reside in the people past their designated period.

Noatak frowns. "No. I know you're in need of a bath, but we have to hurry, We have arrangements to make. My brothers and sisters—my followers scavenged through the air temple's supplies, but we—they haven't taken everything. There may be some street clothes we can wear. Also, we need something to secure our passage." Tarrlok only hears, _I need something to keep you in line._

Curbing the bitterness in his voice, Tarrlok says, "You can bloodbend with your mind. There's nothing quite so—_coercive_ as that."

Noatak's eyebrows raise slightly. "Once this is all done with, I'll cease using that."

"Why aren't you staying for your revolution? Noatak, what have you done?" It occurs to him—how did Noatak know he'd spoken with the Avatar? He must've met her; she must've said something to allude to their previous conversation—and?

"You're too gracious," Tarrlok continues, a sneer on his lips, "and here I thought you'd leave me alone in a cell to rot so I wouldn't inconvenience you."

"Nonsense. You were still an inconvenience, as evidenced by the Avatar's outburst at my rally." Tarrlok's eyes widen. "Recent events have made me realize that I've gotten too obsessed with power, but a humble life may clear my mind. My intents were good, but bending corrupts, and not even I'm immune to its—temptations." Noatak's words come off as stilted.

"You're very kind to help others to appease your own sense of worth."

"I admit that it sounds self-absorbed, but it's better than passing draconian laws to keep order."

"Like making bending illegal?"

Ignoring that statement, Noatak says, "Just think of it as one of our hunting trips, and—" He turns abruptly, his back to his brother and his hands relaxed at his sides, and Tarrlok can't detect if he is smirking as he says, "I've already collected the bait."


	3. Korra I

There isn't pain, only a radio crackling, moving in her head, a pressure like a bad cold where she can't think can't move can't breathe. And with one small breath, she falls.

"I told you I would destroy you."

Everything's gone.

She loses almost all consciousness, all sense of the world around her. The last thing she hears is Mako calling her name, and she's bloodbent into a kneeling position. Her world is the pulsing inbetween her ears, her eyes. Her heart shoots up into her throat and she can't breathe.

"Finally, you are powerless."

She barely registers Amon's lieutenant storming in, crumples as Amon releases her from his bloodbending grip. Learning his past—she figured he'd be more human, more reasonable, a deeply hurt man instead of this untouchable figure.

But he's worse. A monster. The revolution—it's not an extreme movement for equality, at least not to their leader. It's a power grab. In an instant, he'll abandon it and leave his subordinates to rot. He'll bend others and torture them, even with his proficiency in nonbending fighting tactics. Even with his speeches about snuffing out fear, of stomping out the bending elite so people can walk the streets peacefully.

Despite herself, it's a disappointment. Can she really say that she expected more of Amon? After Tarrlok's systematic oppression of innocent civilians, a traitorous cloud of incertitude usurped her. Yes, he was a radical, but perhaps he could be reasoned with if she took the time to listen when the Council refused.

Amon's boots brush past her, and no no no. This loss of control, the crashing—if only she can scream, attack Amon. Save her friends. Mako—no no no, she can't save him.

By a sheer burst of will, her senses flood back, and it only renders her sick. Moving onto her elbows, lifting herself up—oh, it aches. It's not bloodbending. She can't support her own weight. All of the fire in her body, everything that made all of the energy move? Extinguished.

She hears something collapse, a faint breath, and she's slammed into the floor again. The pain sears her body; she's racking with dry sobs. Blackness mists over her vision as swiftly as the truncated flicker of time when she regained a modicum of power.

"Perhaps in another life, you would've seen reason," Amon murmurs. At the rally and when he just stole her bending, he was taunting her. Now, his words ring with resignation. He recedes into that mask of the mysterious Amon, not the sadistic man who enjoys manipulating others after corroding and crafting himself into a fine-tuned machine.

There's a pressing in her head, the world contorts—gets smaller and—

Body outstretched and limp, her existence shrinks, becoming lighter. She's picked up off of the ground, and it's as if she's been unconscious for hours, and _oh please, let it be Mako._

But Mako wouldn't sling her over his shoulders so carelessly—in a grip so possessive. She's drifting away, and she mistakes it for dying. No, she doesn't want to die. Korra hasn't fixed anything; she's wasted so much time.

Maybe her period as the Avatar is revoked, and the loss of her ability to master the four elements kills her. The others aren't obligated to command their elements, but she's supposed to be the best. To protect.

Enshrouded, metallic hissing and clicking. An underground tunnel? Of course he won't parade her around. On the other hand, well, why not? He tied up children and left them out for display. Surely, he'd want to reveal his greatest victory.

The world is a shell, and Korra is trapped in it. Smothering. Like a chicken-pig in its egg.

No, a dragon. A spiteful, incensed serpent ready to strike.

She pushes, shoves, and it doesn't give. There's a blur of muffled colors and noises, but she can't reach through. She's the one who's cracking on the inside.

It's a prison that offers her its sanctuary, but Korra struggles. She's not one for cages.

Fresh air hits her face after awhile as Amon surfaces. Soon, he drops her into something that rocks as her weight falls upon it.

* * *

"Korra!"

That voice. Something to run toward, but her body won't yield to her needs.

(It's over.)

"You didn't."

"She's been equalized."

"Noatak, you've killed the Avatar."

"She appears to be alive to me."

"Without her bending, she can't—you've disrupted the balance."

"Because things were going along swimmingly for you and your tools on the Council. Balance is another word for stagnation, brother. Yes, she was performing a stunning job protecting the city," Noatak says sardonically, "and no doubt irrevocable changes will be made in her absence, since she was _so_ active in rebuilding broken ties when she wasn't getting knocked out in a sports arena or harassing street protestors."

_Hey, I won sometimes._

"What are you searching for, Noatak?"

"Something I hid under the floorboards after I found you. It should look familiar to you."

Geez, this guy sure likes to hear himself talk. Korra stands through the darkness, and she's not a dragon, but a worm. This isn't real. She'll wake up in that compound, ready to devise pranks and sneak a radio into her room for tonight's probending match. She inhales the must of someplace that doesn't receive much care. Pain shoots into her limbs as her pressure points are blocked with precision. Spread onto the floor in humiliating defeat, someone scoops her up.

She tries to speak, tries to mouth the words, _I hate you. _This isn't how it's supposed to be.

* * *

"Why did you lie about your past?"

"I don't believe anti-benders would rally with the bloodbending son of a renowned criminal. Their sympathies would be short-lived."

"Why are we waiting for her to wake up? Can't we make the arrangements while she rests?"

"Yes, but I'd rather deal with her tantrum beforehand."

"She's the Avatar, Noatak. All she is—you've taken it."

"Hm, I warned her it would come to this, yet she persisted."

When Korra comes to, she expects the clink of chains. Instead, she's lying on top of a bed, her limbs numb. Strangely enough, it's a sensation worse than pain.

The room is humble, composed of a wooden desk, a bookshelf, and a small wardrobe on the side opposite of the bed. The dull browns, the rushing sound of water that calms her at night—she's at the air temple?

An orange light seeps through the window adjacent to the bed. How long was she out? Why hasn't she been found?

The numbness subsides, and the other two inhabitants in the room, both sitting next to the door in rickety chairs, shift their attentions to her. Suddenly, she's chilled to the core. Her eyebrows wrinkled, Korra returns the gaze of a stranger she's never seen before.

"Who are you—" His voice, his clothes, she swears it's Amon, and Tarrlok referred to him as Noatak, but she saw, but he's—he's not— "Your scar—"

"Supposedly, scars fade over time. Like what you see?" Noatak stands, and she's here on the bed. The way he's eying her, his eyes cold, did he just—

Ew. Ew. _Ew._

She sits up and glowers, scooting as close as she can to the headboard.

"I'd like it better if you were really scarred. At least that'd mean you're honest."

Though fatigue consumes her frame, she lurches and punches the air, hoping to burn his face off, to make his story come true—like she almost hurt Tarrlok when fire scorched her reason and she was too driven by hate to retreat.

Noatak doesn't even flinch.

Korra lowers her hand, staring out into space with confusion. Then her memory floods back like a broken dam. Her voice cracks when she attempts to speak.

Swallowing painfully, she moves her lips once, twice.

"I-I can't bend."

She doesn't hear those words. Perhaps she never spoke. Her vision blurring, she forces back any tears. Korra rotates her attention to the man who hasn't bothered to address her.

"Tarrlok?"

Noatak takes a step toward her. She instinctually tries to throw herself back further, only to dig the headboard further into her Equalist guise.

"I don't trust you to comply, nor do I trust you enough to think you won't try to conspire with my brother to plot an escape attempt."

"I'm sorry, Avatar," Tarrlok finally says. Everything in him suggests weariness. He looks to Noatak. "I agreed to go with you, but I won't stand for you tormenting her."

Agreed to—that weasel-snake! What are they planning for her? In this cramped space with two older men, the two people who have hurt her the most, it's all too much.

The only way to heal everything—

"What kind of a monster do you think I am? I have no intentions of brutalizing her. I am not my father." (Ha, that's a joke. Who knew Amon could have a sense of humor?)

_I need to die._

"Yes, Noatak."

The truth—no, she can't accept it, but that doesn't make it less valid. It will take years for the new Avatar to mature into their role; still, she can't fulfill her duty now. Everything's black and rainy, an abrupt end. She's supposed to win. She made it so far, even outwitted the Equalists when she could scarcely see straight.

_Korra, calm down._

She suspects that with his brother able to disable the Avatar, Tarrlok resigns himself to complacency. He is, after all, driven to keep others pleased with him. Maybe if she threatens Tarrlok in some way—well, Noatak can just bloodbend her through a wall.

She can hardly move because of her exhaustion. "Please," Korra rasps, "what do you want with me? It's over. You've won. You've destroyed me, just like Yakone wanted. You're such a good son."

_Now's the time for a great plan._

_Yeah, I'll get back to you on that._

It's ludicrous, but perhaps it's better that she isn't separated from these two. If they escaped, nobody would have a tab on them. If she stays in the city she's failed, Korra won't know their whereabouts, their new plan. They'd get away free, but should she ever find a way to contact an ally, while not jeopardizing the lives of those around her, she will be watching them.

"All victors need their spoils," Noatak tells her, and all she sees in his eyes is the hunger of a wolf. An undercurrent of something she can't face.

Amon: charismatic leader of the revolution; tactician; terrorist; charlatan; nasty dude; creepy old guy.

She stiffens. "Don't touch me."

As if exasperated, Noatak sighs. "No, it's nothing like that." Korra lifts herself off of the bed.

_You have some major issues, pal._

"Noatak," Tarrlok says, his voice containing a note of warning. Korra expects that Noatak won't react because, after all, it's not like his brother can wound him, but, like a bashful child, Noatak recoils slightly at the admonishment.

"Like your lieutenant?" Korra says, emboldened by the crack in his mask, "Is he proof of how amazing you are? I-I heard you—you killed him. Who's the bending oppressor now?"

Noatak waves it off. "No, no, he'll survive. He's fallen off of enough cliffs and buildings. I wasn't sure we'd fish out one piece after the scuffle on the arena dome. I'm sure he'll handle being flung around. It's not his physical wounds that will burden him the most." Noatak pauses, suddenly looking his age as the lines under his eyes deepen, and says, "If I killed him, it would've preserved my secret, but that would only maintain the cycle of deception." And if he killed the Avatar, her friend, and his brother, but he doesn't go into those details. If he'd exterminated Tarrlok from the start, nobody would be wise to the truth.

_A change of heart? You've gotta be kidding me. Does this guy even know himself?_

"You're a real class act, Noatak."

Has he won, though? His secret's out—or soon to be out. He'll be labeled a fraud; the entire nonbender population will suffer. In a way, that's a worse consequence than what happened to her. People who never had the chance to better themselves will now be vilified as crooks because of their one association with a terrorist group—the one trait that connects them to those who affiliated themselves with a trickster.

There's more bite in his typically unemotional voice. "I am _not_ Noatak to you."

"You're also not _supposed_ to be the most powerful bender alive."

"I was bringing peace to the city." His hands curl at his sides.

"And what good has that done? Peace. Yeah, uh huh, with your airships bombing the city all over the place with 'peace' written on them. Nice bit of irony, huh, Noatak?"

He advances, and Korra straightens her back, lifting her chin imperiously.

"She can't do us any harm." Tarrlok rises off of the chair, moving to grab his brother's arm. How weird it is: two brothers acting so familiar with each other when they were political enemies weeks ago. Tarrlok despised everything Amon represented, and Amon shared the sentiment, but now they're speaking, and Amon isn't this foreboding, almost inhuman being. Two men with completely opposing perspectives on peace and order.

Noatak argues, "She ruined you."

"Hey! I'm right here, Noawhatever."

"If it weren't for the Avatar, you wouldn't have lost your position."

"And," Tarrlok replies, "you would've captured me and my bending would've been stolen anyway. She's just a girl. You can't blame her for all of society's ills."

"But she provoked the bloodbending out of you—she had to have, didn't she? This never would've happened if the Avatar killed Yakone." For a scant moment, Noatak almost sounds like a vulnerable human being, and, despite her pure hatred for him, her heart squeezes. It must be awful to know the world would be better off if you never existed.

"If I knew how to chi-block, you'd so be on the floor right now." Such words come out stiffly. Korra wants to aggravate Amon, to make him regret every moment with her, but she's so tired, so ready to find comfort somewhere, anywhere.

With one heated glance from him, she's on the ground, writhing like a spider-flea, gasping in pain as everything gives out, her body out of her control as she lands on her side and spasms.

"S-Stop! Stop, p-please." Just like that, her muscles relax. She rolls onto her stomach, drool falling out of her mouth as she exhales quickly.

"If you don't misbehave, I won't have to punish you," Noatak says.

Tarrlok raises his voice. Even if his brother can toss him aside like the felt puppet he is, he won't go on speechlessly as he did when they were boys. "Brother, leave her alone. Now you're just doing this out of cruelty."

With that, Noatak deflates. "I'm sorry, brother. No matter what I do, I can't seem to escape my father's shadow."

Tarrlok steps over to Korra and bends down, extending his arm to her. She considers rebuking against his offered hand, but takes it anyway, slowly getting onto her knees and pressing herself upward.

"Did you plan for this to happen?" she whispers to Tarrlok.

"No," he says sadly. After she leans against him, Tarrlok loses all semblance to the composed, unctuous man she detested. "Yakone is dead! You call me weak, but at least I've tried to run away from his legacy! You use it as an excuse to hurt others, _just_ after telling me that you're not him! I brought this upon myself, and you've brought everything upon yourself!" Tarrlok averts his gaze, his shoulders low. She feels his pulse accelerate. He smells awful, like sweat and musk. All of his fury dissipates, and he reverts back to the lessened man. "This has nothing to do with revenge?" The words offer a flicker of hope, though Tarrlok's furthered himself from foolish dreams.

Noatak shakes his head, not directing attention to his brother or the Avatar as he says, "A tool of revenge. Exactly like my father—no. This isn't for him. We've earned this."

"How?" Tarrlok says, a hint of desperation in his tone. Korra pushes herself off of him, settling on the wall, her shoulder against it. "She's—she's not a thing, Noatak." No matter his reservations, neither he nor Korra have the control to fight back. Korra might have the nerve, but not the capacity, and Tarrlok has neither.

Noatak acts as if he hasn't heard a word his brother said. "They'll never find us, but we have to hurry if we want to escape by nightfall. Hiroshi sent me a notification before the rally—he intercepted a message that called forth a new United Forces fleet, so he sent out some planes to greet them." Planes—those flying things? "By the slim chance that they fail, the ships were just departing, so they might not arrive until the morning."

"Won't it cause us more trouble if we bring her along? The world will be searching for her."

"If we're discovered, she'll grant us safe passage. I could easily kill her, and a threat to her will render us unstoppable. If she's stubborn and persists in fighting—" Noatak peers at her. "—I have the ability to rupture your friends' innards with one thought. Brother, don't look at me like that. I have no intentions of fulfilling that threat, unless she prompts me."

"You're a monster," Korra says. "What did you do to Mako?"

"Relax, Avatar. My followers have been trained not to kill."

Her friends need her—but she's not a good Avatar. She never was, but now she'll certainly never be.

"You took away his bending." Her hands curl up into fists. If only she'd . . .

"I've taken away the bending of almost every bender in the city. I don't see why he should be the exception, whether or not he is the Avatar's consort."

"W-What?"

Noatak laughs harshly. "Really, Avatar Korra, you have no sensibility, but I thought you'd have enough couth to not pine after the Sato girl's lover after she cut ties with her father." Well, when he puts it like _that_.

She worked herself past the crush, but he kept pushing things onto her—from nice gestures to accusations. Korra didn't want to flirt with him, but Mako gave too many mixed signals. He was with Asami, but he didn't want her with Bolin. He was saving her up, just in case.

Her stomach twists into knots. Asami's been nothing but helpful and sweet, and this whole thing makes Korra feel so stupid, so childish and inept. It's not all Mako's fault. She shouldn't have accepted anything that suggested more than friendship; she should've painted clear boundaries. Why couldn't they all have been friends?

Why couldn't she have focused on her training so she would've been more prepared?

_It's too late for regrets, Korra._

She bares her teeth. "That's not any of your business."

_I am not _your_ Avatar, bub._

"It is rather trivial," Tarrlok says, returning to his seat.

"You seem to enjoy prying into my personal life."

"Like anyone would have a crush on you."

She turns to Tarrlok, who steadily looks at her without truly seeing. His expression is unreadable, one leg crossed over the other. He can't ward off his brother. Neither of them can bend, and while Korra doesn't want to concede, will never give Amon the satisfaction of "breaking" her, she also prefers not to experience the sensation of being bloodbent.

Ever since Tarrlok lifted her up out of the vehicle, dangled her in the air—it's just _wrong_. What did they have to endure to be so damaged?

Korra tells herself not to break down. Even if she doesn't believe it for a second, she thinks about how she's more than her bending, that the Avatar title was handed down to _her_, no matter what. No matter how capable she is, it's hers. Not something she earned, just handed over while others have to work for—well, that doesn't help.

Stripped of bending is like having her skin flayed, every concealed nook of herself exposed. And fighting her way through everything—there's nothing left but a gaping void.

Addressing his brother, Noatak asks, "You don't mind a boat trip, do you? If I recall correctly, you didn't like boats. They made you motion-sick."

"I'll endure it," Tarrlok says dryly. They were arguing, and then it's as if they never fought. Korra once thought the Fire Nation's royal family held the position of the world's most messed up family.

"Where are we going?" she asks. Tarrlok lifts his head up and shakes his head. Noatak ignores her words altogether.

_Help me._

Noatak says, "We can leave Republic City to heal on its own." He steps closer to Korra. "It'll be better off without all of us."

Tarrlok's expression softens, but he doesn't move. If she hadn't learned his name, she probably would've regarded him as a completely different person from the smarmy politician with his stupid, smirk-y faces and gross cologne. That Tarrlok was particular about every aspect of himself. Restraint, getting dolled up to hide the decay from years of torment. Sokka once said, after returning home when he retired from the Council and his wife passed, that you can't turn a flying bison's leavings into orchids (seriously, don't try it), but you can roll it in the petals and call it a flower.

Still, the memory almost makes her smile, but the muscles in her jaw ache as if she's been beaming for awhile. Korra just took that line as Sokka being a bit eccentric. However, even if nobody can change something, they can powder it up and pass it off as something else. What did Tarrlok say at that cabin? He had to become someone else other than Yakone's son, but even with the expensive clothes and pungent colognes, he can't alter the contents of his own blood.

Korra pities him (_them_? no, no) to a certain extent, but not enough to condone what he did to the city and her friends. Yes, she's been sheltered; she's never endured abuse from a person she loves. But someone doesn't have to embrace all of the bad parts of their parents. Given how gaunt and _broken _Tarrlok appears, maybe she really is speaking out of inexperience.

Noatak grips both of her shoulders, and she squirms, only to feel her muscles tighten and her body harden into stone.

_You aren't, in fact, the Avatar. You are merely a half-baked Avatar-in-training._

_Please, you're _our_ Avatar too._

She chews on her lip. She's been nothing but neglectful. How can she mend everything now?

"With my lieutenant aware of my powers, my secret should be common knowledge fairly soon." Her body relaxes as he stops his psychic bloodbending, but she's still immovable under his touch.

"I hope you blow up and die," Korra says. Noatak snorts. She has to say she never expected something so undignified from Amon.

"In that order?" He grins in amusement before resorting back to his frosty nature. "I find that you'll appreciate a new start, Korra." What's with this guy? It's like he's six different people.

She murmurs to herself, "My friends . . ." She has them to live for, but what good is she? They—oh spirits, they'll be crushed if she ends it like this.

Asami. Asami does better than Bolin and Mako in battle. After she's endured so much, she's resilient and patient. She can't bend. Yeah, she's had training in that specific field, but if anyone has been handed enough reasons to give up, it'd be Asami Sato. Yet she walks forward. Korra had Mako so crammed up her butt that she never took anything else seriously for awhile, never tempered herself.

But Korra—she's not an average person. All of her life, her mission—to restore balance. All that composes her worth is her bending. Aang was more than his fighting skills, but his reluctance is why this is happening. She can't be him. Not out of reluctance or contempt for Aang's disposition, but because she's too far removed from his personality.

What sage-y thing would Aang say to her if she was spiritual enough to actually talk to him? _Everything happens for a reason, Korra._ It's too uncanny, the situation between these brothers, but fate's like an invisible set of marionette strings. She reserves no interest in something that'll make her sit a fight out because she thinks the outcome is already determined.

She wants to punch Noatak's face, to wipe the grin off, to make sure it's not unscathed. This liar, this cheater.

_You're _our_ Avatar too._

Well, that was—different? Bloodbending is an unnatural, evil thing. Katara mentioned that it can heal, but those who implement it change in some gruesome way. To bloodthirstiness to participation in politics, no good ever comes from it. The thirst of control overrides any goodwill.

"As I said, I've taught my followers to incapacitate, not to kill. Hiroshi is keeping watch over his daughter and your friends, and I doubt he'd harm his own daughter."

_Maybe they got away, like Tenzin and the kids. They're safe, aren't they?_

"You monster. You tied up children. Showed them off like trophies. You're insane. The bloodbending, it's changed you."

"I can be quite the braggart, though I'll wager that most of your assumptions about me are false. I kept the wife and newborn in safe custody. I don't particularly enjoy being blown off stages, so restraining them was a necessary precaution. As for my methods, you grew up with Katara at your side. Things do change, Avatar."

He releases her shoulders, and she plants her feet down harder to keep from stumbling.

She says, "Katara is one of the bravest people I know! Don't talk about her."

"Perhaps, but she's only seen one side of bloodbending."

"What other side is there? All you've done is use it to hurt people."

Deflecting her comment, he says, "Where is your room?"

Her nose crinkles. "Why?"

"I need to check to see if you have any suitable clothes. I can't have you masquerading around in Equalist gear."

Reluctantly, she replies, "It's on the girls' side." Duh.

* * *

Once Amon informed the rally of his power, she dreamed of him bursting in her room while she was asleep and stealing her bending. When they reach her room, it doesn't have a place where she can sit down and apply make-up or inspect her appearance. Korra has never been one to monitor every detail of herself. Most of the rooms have the same layout, but not every single one, so she settles in the room adjacent to her. It occurs to her that she never knew this acolyte's name.

The air between them grows thankfully quiet, but she surmises that it won't last. She stares into the mirror, sees the bags under her eyes, the hairs gone askew.

Now, she's an adult. Hollow, yet her eyes still glimmer with a hint of something. Her lips curling at that last observation, she thinks that it's more than she can say for Amon. If only she garnered any maturity alongside her growth.

She can see Tarrlok sitting in silence behind her—on the opposite side of the tiny room. All he does is dwell and wait, but never with the same aplomb as before. Never with his back straight.

There's some shuffling when Noatak plops a suitcase on the bed and begins filling it. "Brother, I've sifted through what remains of the living quarters, and I believe these might fit sufficiently enough." Minutes pass, and her insides twist as Noatak walks over to her and grabs a lock of her hair in his hands, inspecting it.

Amon—toying with her hair. Oh man, only she'd get enemies this creepy. Like Ozai would've touched Aang's ha—well, his head.

Noatak orders, "Do something with it."

"Um, it's only messy because you threw me and Mako around."

"Arrange it into something else," he elaborates in annoyance. Korra bites back a smile.

"She wears her hair like you used to," Tarrlok says with no discernible emotion in his voice. Really, is that what he sees when he looks at Korra—a female Amon?

_Issues. Major issues._

"We must be soulmates," Noatak deadpans, and that only reminds her of the bad decisions she made with Mako. All that situation did was make her feel more incompetent—idiotic and little. Flustered over miniscule matters. "I also seem to recall you added a ponytail since our last meeting. An odd choice, given that Yakone had a similar styling."

For that, Tarrlok yields no answer.

Her stomach rumbles, but not out of hunger. Korra's body can't decide whether it wants to be hot or cold. Sweat forms in her armpits, and she swallows back the nausea as her head pounds and throbs. She touches her stomach, and then the cool wood of the simple vanity.

_When we reach our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change._

"Don't flatter yourself, pal. Last I checked, bloodbending makes the wielder go coo-coo. Not that your a full set of chicken-goose feathers, but it'll catch up with you." Korra's eyelids lower, her body about to fold under her as a fuzziness enraptures her mind. "You already look kinda cruddy under the eyes, old man."

Noatak shifts his attention to Tarrlok. "Nobody will recognize me, but you might need to cut your hair—or change it somehow, though you're remarkably clean-shaven for someone who's spent awhile in a cell. Did my followers give you a chance to tend to your hygiene?"

"I undid my hair after I realized that you were my brother—after I'd been put in the attic."

"Ah yes, politicians always have a flare for the dramatic," Noatak says as he returns to the totally non-weird action of folding clothes. How strange it is to see Amon do human things in a familiar, mundane environment. This can't be the guy who boasted on a stage in the blistering reflection of intermingling red and gold lights.

"One of your guards commented on some new renovations added to Avatar Aang's statue," Tarrlok replies wryly, "so I'd say that trait isn't isolated."

As she pulls her hair free, Korra mutters to herself, "I'm not the Avatar anymore."

She doesn't expect either of them to hear or to answer her, but Noatak is nothing if not keen. "It's not as if you were doing anything beneficial with your title. Even if you learn patience and acceptance, it'll be far too late for you to be useful to the people of this city."

The past Avatars always mastered the elements. There's more to being the Avatar than brute force, but can she be formidable without her bending?

_Just one sentence that taps into my insecurities, and I'm down._

"I'm not the Avatar anymore," she repeats. "I need to die." In the mirror's reflection, she sees Tarrlok wince in the corner. Korra always huffed when the stuffy White Lotus men talked about responsibility. What she'd give to return to those days of successful escapes into the tundra on Naga's back as they trotted through the landscape.

"I highly doubt the removal of your bending disrupted the cycle," Noatak says, ceasing his task to look at her.

"The world needs a real Avatar." Why her? She was never smart enough, understanding enough. She's failed.

_No, Korra. No. This isn't over._

"It's a purely physical component," Noatak says. He's too close, too invasive. Right behind her. There are so many ways he can hurt her without bending, and now he's a bloodbender, and she only has what little innovative strategies she can make up on the spot. "It wasn't spiritbending."

Her masters never taught her specific nonbending strategies. Her only real victories when she didn't bend were when she knocked that guy out with Mako's scarf and kept herself from getting electrocuted inside of the metal box. But she had needed bending to complete the tasks handed to her.

"Please, leave me alone. Leave me alone." She's sad, pathetic. Reduced to dust so easily. Ground into tiny pieces. What happened to her courage, her excitement after she rode Naga through unfamiliar streets, breath taken away by the cultures twined together? First there was the threat of getting her bending taken away, of being nothing; then there was Tarrlok chipping away at her esteem. And how like the spirits to execute such a plan, that these people who worked to break her would share the same blood.

Yet she did nothing but aggravate the situation. It's too late for grievances, but if only she'd been patient, if only she'd _listened_.

No. She won't hear him, notice his smirk or the shadows under his brows.

"Leave her be, Noatak. She can't do anything to you."

All Amon wants is to make her suffer. It was never about her place amongst the bending elite, which prompted her to disregard social stratification; no, it was just the fact that she was branded with that title by the accident of birth, and that meant she had more influence than Amon.

_Finally, you are powerless._

Noatak pulls something out of his uniform and hands it to Tarrlok. He speaks to her again.

"Pick a name."

"What?"

"You need a new name."

"Why? Korra's a nice name. Sounds better than 'Amon', anyway. Where'd you pick that one out?"

Unfortunately, nothing in him suggests her words bother him. "Pick, or I will pick for you."

His voice is like a deep rumble. Korra clasps the stool she's sitting on, pressing hard. Kya? Katara? Senna? No, the name of her grandmother. Her Uncle Unarock almost named her cousin after her.

"Palartok," she whispers.

She anticipates mockery. Noatak curls his hand under his chin pensively for a moment. "It doesn't suit you."

"We're not supposed to choose our names," she says, "Just everything else."

"Luckily, my brother and I have the necessary papers should we have ever decided to flee under new identities. I had enough sense to confiscate his forms from his cabin when my followers and I located where he was hiding. Even with our differences, we still think alike." Tarrlok's silence is palpable, and Korra is reminded that he planned to do something along these lines with her. He caught her, and then what?

"I don't have anything like that." Her words descend below a whisper, her eyelids heavy.

"And you are especially lucky that my brother thinks such things out. We both have remarkable insight." Korra rolls her eyes. Yeah, like he expected that Tarrlok wouldn't try to rat him out. "He forged such documents prior to being found out and returning to where you were imprisoned."

"Yeah, great."

To Tarrlok, Noatak says, "One of us will have to pose as her husband."

"Husband?" she blurts out, wavering. He tucks the papers into the suitcase.

"I don't believe my brother and I are particularly well-suited for the fatherly role, unless there's something my brother hasn't told me." He stands between her and the mirror. Almost whimsically, he adds, "I've always wanted a family."

Ew. Eww.

"No, no, no! I won't—"

Noatak rolls his eyes, a response that imitates her own action a minute ago. "Please, don't flatter yourself. We'll fill out the details later. We won't be taking any formal transportation for awhile, and the villages past the coast of the Earth Kingdom aren't known for their sophistication."

She lowers her head. Unbidden, a few fat tears roll down her cheeks. To be with her friends, to sleep and escape all of this—if only. "Why are you doing this to me?"

He kneels to her level. With uncharacteristic softness, he says, "It's not the end of the world." Usually when he speaks lowly, there's an underlying danger, but this is much worse. She won't let him see her defeated.

"Uh, if I can't save the world, it kinda _is_." Korra laughs through her tears, and Noatak doesn't move. "Amon the Bloodbender just told me that I can live without bending. Me, the Avatar."

"I lived for many years without bending. Your bending is like a spider's web hovering over darkness. You've always been a nobody, but you have bending as an excuse to lord over others. Without it to stand between the shadows, you're lost, but there are other ways to supply light."

"You're full of surprises. First you're a liar, and then you're a poet. Take your own bending, buddy." Korra snarls and looks away. "Hypocrite."

He smirks. "Is that coming from—"

She meets his gaze, her eyes shining. "Coward! You say I'm a prize, but you've lost this one. You were crazy enough to bloodbend your own lieutenant. Someone who trusted you to help people in trouble. And you're running away. You're worse than Tarrlok ever was; you're worse than Ya—"

He grabs her under the chin, leaning to where she can feel his breath tickling her nose. It takes her back to that night of their proposed "duel." She could glance beneath the mask, past the barrier between the man and the icon, and his eyes radiated with gold because of a misdirection of light. His real eyes are unanimated, devoid of spirit.

"You will regret finishing that sentence."

"If you bloodbend me," Korra says, smirking, "you're only proving me right." The thing about assisting people in need—she's failed in that regard too. Oops.

"Now there's a thought. You _do_ bring out the worst in me."

"And you did just say you can't escape his shadow, didn't you?"

When he steps away and releases her, his body resting against the dresser, she lifts off of the stool shortly and spits in his face.

"The difference between you and me is that people will miss me once I'm gone."

The anger diminishes in his expression as he wipes it away from his cheek. He's cold again. Now bereft of any satisfaction, her muscles act against her will. More subtly than the sharp twisting of her limbs, he holds her in place without so much as a tilt of her head.

"Besides your hair, you'll need to apply cosmetics to your face."

"I don't wear make-up."

"You'll learn."

Korra lifts one corner of her mouth. "I guess I _do_ look a little young for you. People might think that you're a dirty old man."

Noatak leaves her, and says, "Brother, do you know how to use such things?" Tarrlok chuckles.

"I can touch my own face, thanks!"

"The first weeks after your disappearance, I helped my mother in any way I could. Growing up with a tyrannical husband, I thought she couldn't handle herself, though I was joyfully proven wrong on numerous occasions. However, she did not teach me to do her make-up."

_Yeah, well, you are pretty girly though, Tarrlok._

On that note, Korra decides that she'd like to do her hair like her mother's, and she gets the unpleasant, hilarious image of the two brothers braiding both sides of her hair. She bites her lip to stifle the laughter as she opens a drawer and peruses it.

Taking out two ribbons, her hands shaking, she focuses on her hair. She fumbles, and it's a struggle to maneuver her fingers. Spirits, with the impending battle in her head the day before, and her nightmares, when's the last time she's slept well? When she was battered after running away from Amon at Tarrlok's cabin?

_Which reminds me, how _is_ your airbending going?_

_This is your last warning: stay out of my way._

_So sad to see your little Team Avatar broken up. You had a good run._

_That's what I admire about you Korra: your willingness to go to extremes in order to get what you want. It is a quality we both share._

Wood creaks, and Tarrlok moves beside her. A hand lands lightly on her shoulder. "Do you need help?"

"No, I'm _fine_," she says tersely. Perfect, now she's the one with ambivalent moods. A stab of homesickness barrages her. "My mom never wore stuff on her face."

Tarrlok says, "Neither did mine." He retreats, giving her the space she needs.

Not that it's bad to have make-up; for girls like Asami, it accentuates their best features. But in the compound, looking nice wasn't a concern. Yes, she needed to be presentable, but any powders or creams she wore would just slough off or crack and get all itchy when she began firebending.

"Don't I need a betrothal necklace?" Both brothers stare at her, neither one saying a word. The mirror doesn't distort their images, but Korra figures that they're grotesque enough. "I mean, if we're married . . ." She doesn't care about some dumb trinket, but she wants to delay the inevitable. She guesses that Noatak will "claim" her. That sicko.

She halts. No, she doesn't mean _that_. Just the title. He won't—they're repulsed by each other.

"That's only a Northern Water Tribe tradition, isn't it?" Noatak raises an eyebrow at his brother before handing him an object she can't discern.

Tarrlok shrugs, frowning. "Mother never wore one. Then again, I suppose Yakone never bothered to craft her one."

* * *

When they approach the dock, Noatak sets the suitcases down behind her, and Tarrlok relinquishes his clutch on her arm, not that it was particularly rough. Her heart sinks when she sees motorboats lining the water. With the onset of nightfall, a blurry smudge of purple lines the horizon.

She finally realizes what Tarrlok carries in his other hand, but why will they need it if they're finding a new start? Part of her says her ire is mostly directed at Amon, but if she reveals their location, Tarrlok will be punished too.

_Once a weasel-snake, always a weasel-snake. I'll find help once I'm there, and then it'll be payback time._

Great, a boat ride with a crazy waterbender and his crestfallen brother. Sounds like the plot line for a bad romance inside of a radio play. Or a horror script. Time for Nini the Ghost to arrive.

Before Korra notices his next move, Noatak paralyzes her with his chi-blocking. Falling to the side, Tarrlok catches her, supporting her weight by wrapping his arms under hers. Looking past the uncomfortable nature of her position, Korra shouts for help. Her voice rings out, but the island is abandoned. Tarrlok makes no move to silence her.

_It's not as if you were doing anything beneficial with your title._

Noatak inspects the boat. Noting the chi-blocking gloves and the weapons similar to the ones his former lieutenant utilized, he frowns and begins dumping them into the water. He won't need these to incapacitate his brother and the Avatar, but _they_ would've surely found some use in them.

Korra registers his intent, and her heart falls even further. She doesn't understand why he's even letting her live (besides needing a creepy reminder of his "victory"), much less letting the Avatar go with him in his escape. Despite his explanations, she thinks he's just as lost about this as she is. Does he even feel any love for his own brother if he can just discard his ardent followers on a whim? The faltering, the changes, she can't predict him.

All of her life, it seems like old dudes decide her purpose. Excluding Sifu Katara, all of her mentors have been men; they subject her to their expectations, and the city unwrapped this pattern of her falling into their machinations.

Noatak climbs out of the boat. "She's not a sack of potatoes, brother," he says, amused, though he's carried her with much less consideration than his brother.

"Tarrlok." Noatak extends a hand, and it's the first time Korra's heard him refer to his brother by his name. Tarrlok hands him his mask. His back to them, Noatak drops it on the ground, lowering a foot and smashing into into several pieces. They scatter, falling into the sea like petals spread by the wind, and he catches his reflection in the thick water.

The fragments will wash away. Even if anyone finds evidence within the temple or inquires about a boat missing in the line-up, they'll be gone. He doesn't wait for long, and he hears Tarrlok grunt.

He faces his brother and the Avatar as the girl attempts stable herself. She wonders why he chose not to knock her out. She can barely feel her feet, can't move most of her other joints. She grimaces. Wobbling on her numb limbs, Korra bends down with her eyes widened and vomits on his shoes. Indeed, she'll ensure that this is his greatest victory.


	4. Republic City I

General Iroh, while not meaning any offense to Aang, will thank the spirits if he never has to hang from a flag again. The jump, while brief and softened by the fire he used to propel himself down onto the foot of the memorial, catches a whiff of the unease in the air. It lingers in his throat.

Though he's young for his station, careening into such circumstances takes a lot out of him. He isn't accustomed to brashness and fierce action. Society bred him to follow plans and act systematically. Given that several United Forces ships now sleep in Republic City's waters, perhaps his straightforward tactics aren't the best approach against cunning innovation and rapid progress.

Red isn't the best color when your enemies can take to the skies.

Though he maintains his stolid composure through the worst scrapes, this position was essentially ordained to him; the son of the Firelord won't be dwelling in the countryside, shelling beans and herding livestock. His path was set toward diplomacy, leadership, and while his mother is a charitable woman, she is also vastly proud.

Yes, he's just stopped a fleet of flying crafts from obliterating his reinforcements (another set of men who could've been vanquished), but will they be strong enough to fight the Equalists off? Has the Avatar defeated Amon, cut the weasel-snake at its head? Will there be anything left of his companions when he returns with help?

He smiles desperately as he imagines the ships on the horizon. _We can win this_, he assures himself. There have been worse odds in the past. The condition the city is a sensitive matter when there are groups of various interests wrestling for either representation or a stabilization of the current status quo.

Iroh refuses to bow before Amon and let this end in failure. His blood won't allow it; his honor won't allow it.

The city will plunge into chaos, yet when the entire world fell at the hands of the Fire Nation, a light shone at the end of that bloody era. Heroes rose, refusing to prostrate themselves before the enemy.

_We _will_ win this. _

* * *

Mako comes to in a haze. Not knowing where he is, he balances himself onto his knees. He stretches his arms out, his nails scratching against the floor, the agony too much to bear.

Immediately, the wrongness of everything stuns him. They were—and he—

"Korra? Korra!" He gets up in a hasty blur of queasiness and sparks smoldering in his veins, ignoring the dizziness.

In a frenzy of thoughts, he almost misses the mustache guy emerging from where Amon propelled him. Mako shifts to face him quickly, an ugly flaring of loathing surfacing from underneath his lungs. Amon's second-in-command doubles over, and Mako pushes him down when he tries to stand.

"Where's Korra?" Mako says, and he lowers himself onto the man's level. "Answer me!"

Silence is his only reward, and he swears that if this guy doesn't talk, he'll—

"I-I don't know," Amon's lieutenant rasps.

Mako snarls. "How can you not know?" Mako watched as Amon betrayed his lieutenant and flung him like a useless doll, but he can't get past Korra's disappearance, and if Amon is gone too—

A hoarse, bitter laugh escapes the Lieutenant. "We aren't quite on speaking terms anymore."

Wait, he's _joking_ about this? Mako's anger boils over. He grabs the front of the man's uniform. "If you don't tell me—"

"You'll _what_? Threaten to scar me for life? A bit late for that, boy; besides, I doubt you have that ability anymore."

He's tempted to try out his firebending on this undone man, but, as if finding himself, Mako snatches his hand back and edges away.

The Lieutenant raises his head, reciprocating Mako's heated glare.

"How does it feel to be helpless?" the Lieutenant barks, steeling himself before rage fades into despair.

Mako shakes violently, the hate melting into an icy fear as he runs. He doesn't care if there are Equalists milling around outside. He just needs to find her.

His bending—he can't probend again, can't work that job. It's a part of his father, but he never considered it that until now.

Fire. Yes, his father hugged him when they learned that they shared the same element, but it was also what killed him and his mom, what forced Mako to crawl to his little brother sobbing, holding the scarf he picked off of his father's corpse. It wasn't ruined or frayed, and he took it as a sign that his father would follow Mako and Bolin wherever they went, whatever they went through.

How can he help his brother this way? He's nothing, nothing.

Muffling his pained grunts, the Lieutenant collects himself into a crouching position, not bothering to further acknowledge the Avatar's friend. Of course Amon ran. Abandoned those who relied on him to get through to the next dawn. The reason why the rejuvenated Lieutenant hadn't hanged himself or died destitute and reeking of spirits in the streets. The coward. Traitor.

Groaning, he crawls, sliding his body so that he may lean on a box of shipments. He closes his eyes.

_I'll find you, Amon. I'll make you look into my face and tell me the truth, even if it means my death._

* * *

General Iroh arrives to disorder. There are citizens in unassuming attire dashing around and yelling threats and complaints. It isn't quite the pandemonium he expected; he expected a battle. He watches as Bumi's men work to restrain them, though he can't see any discernible weapons lugged around by the bystanders.

"Evil benders!"

"What have you done with our leader?"

"Tyrants!"

Iroh steps forward. The morning is cool, but nothing but heat sinks underneath his uniform. Not dwelling on the pandemonium, he straightens with purpose.

"Leave them be! Our fight is with Amon." The men in their military garb—with their scarlet uniforms—stand out amongst the drab colors, exchanging looks of bemusement.

"Have you checked the premises?" he asks one of the men.

He's greeted with a quick salute. "Not completely yet, sir. We just landed. All located Equalists have been neutralized and are awaiting containment." Iroh's heart leaps when he sees Commander Bumi and another person walking toward him.

Bumi smirks. "Look what I found, other Iroh!"

Asami steps forward, her eyes earnest. "General Iroh! Are you all right?"

"Yes. Jumped onto a few planes." He raises his voice so he can be heard over the shouting. "Careened into a statue. Ended up stranded in the streets with several masked vigilantes attempting to electrocute me and no reinforcements. Waited until night to go forward. I've seen worse. You were able to do this without heavy casualties?"

Bumi grunts. "Not much fighting goin' on anymore."

"Odd," Iroh tells Asami, "if Amon is here, the focus should be on the arena."

"It—It was difficult. The knuckleheads kept coming—and they had those gloves with the electrical shocks, but there weren't that many. We drove 'em back. The rest are probably dispersed elsewhere."

Asami says, "Any sign of Korra or Mako?"

"Not yet," Bumi says, shrugging and cracking a large smile, "but she might not be here. Actually, I ran into my brother, Pema, and the tykes. They were steering clear from the air temple and hiding out in this makeshift community. Whoooo, the smell was pretty rank, but I met these pretty swingin' vagrants."

Asami brows furrow. "Did you check the air temple?"

"Yuuup, we did. The place's been torn through, but nobody was there."

Just then, the crowd grows louder, panicked. Screams, fingers pointing.

"What's he doing?"

"Look!"

"There's someone on the top of the arena!"

"He's about to jump!"

* * *

"Mako? Mako, wake up!"

"Bro, Mako, don't leave me, _please_."

Mako awakes to find his brother hovering over him, panting heavily. The rush when he stood, when he dashed away, the exertion caused him to collapse outside of the doors he'd exited.

"B-Bolin?"

"Oh—oh man. Thank you, thank you." Bolin's breathing slows. All of his life, Mako has called the shots, made the crucial decisions. And he's the dumb brother, the dorky, goofy one. Yes, sometimes he wishes that he'd grow a backbone, that Mako would be less protective now that they're off of the streets, even considering Bolin's habit of making bad decisions.

Mako croaks, "We're—still at the arena? How long have I been here?"

"Yeah. It's been real tough getting to here. All night we tried to drive them back. But Bumi just arrived, so it was just me and Asami. Don't know where Iroh is yet. Where's Korra?"

Mako's breath hitches. "You haven't found her?"

"I-I thought she'd be with you. Y-You don't know where she is?"

Mako rises a bit, only to fall down.

"Bro, what happened?" Bolin asks, his eyes as large as saucers. Mako's supposed to be the strong one. He can't support his big brother. He can't even take decent care of himself.

"Amon, he . . ."

"H-He took your bending, didn't he?"

"Just find Korra."

"The general's on his way. A bunch of Equalists have been arrested, but they're all scattered." Somebody rushes past them. Bolin catches a glimpse, but the person doesn't acknowledge his presence.

"Whoa, was that—Mustache Guy? Yeah, he had that funny mustache."

Mako says, "Guess I wasn't the only one who took a snooze."

"There's no way. He's going to get caught. There are soldier dudes all over." Bolin scratches his head before throwing Mako's arm around his shoulders. Mako winces.

"Sorry, bro. Okay, here we go—"

* * *

There, a ladder. So they can repair the dome at any necessary times. Asami ignores the heaviness in her bones as she climbs, ignores the protests of men baffled as soon as she dashed into the arena entrance. _But ma'am, you—we haven't—_

The morning wind flutters her hair into her face. She doesn't know why she insists on being the one to climb to the top when there are others who can assist and aren't as fatigued as she is, but Asami has never been one to shirk off fights.

Though she isn't here to fight. Not anymore. Even if she is capable of doing so, it's such a fruitless thing. To butt heads, to exchange blows instead of words. The man turns to peer at her, not standing to greet her, and something jolts within her, stirring up older memories.

"It's been awhile." Her eye make-up runs down one of her cheeks, and her lipstick has mostly been rubbed off, but she still commands attention in the gray hours of a new day. "Asami Sato."

He hopes she'll strike him down there. But oh, he underestimates the awful mercy of those not willing to kill. Those who prolong suffering by standing back, by adopting passivity. The Lieutenant prefers incapacitating his foes instead of needlessly wasting lives, but he had listened to Amon. Fully and without reservations. They've killed with the bombings. Benders. Nonbenders. Innocents.

Asami rummages through her mind, and her eyes widen.

* * *

Asami isn't naïve enough to say that she doesn't understand. She may be young, but her father's slurred rants and never seeing her mother's glimmering eyes or smile like rubies and pearls cements her resolve. Her mommy and daddy were happy together—they all were. But now it's just the two of them and she'll have to be two people to support the family. To both smother herself under her dad's limp and straggling wing while wiping up his vomit out of the plush carpet, not wanting to burden the staff. They already hear the yelling enough.

Picking him up off the floor. She does that as well in the nights where it's too much. But she can't because she's small and delicate and frail like a butterfly-hornet with no stinger and half-formed wings. Daddy, Daddy, you have to wake up, she goads.

His cheeks taste like tears whenever she kisses his cheek before bed—knowing he'll be with the spirits tonight and the next night and all the time 'cause he can afford it. He's rich and influential and capable and why couldn't he have been the one who died that day?

Joining Mom or not, her dad has already.

So one evening she goes down to the large garage with so many satomobiles. She settles into one that's lower to the ground and shiny and black like a large beetle, and finds a spider-wasp in the front passenger seat. It can sting her with it's angry-red butt-end, but there aren't really any bad endings to her little fairytale world.

The young girl with her hair meticulously combed and her eyes glazed with convincing youth lets the ugly thing crawl into her hand. Asami then leans out of the car slightly, her short arm stretching so she can put it down. The spider-wasp half-flies, half-tumbles out of her small hands and skitters, and an odd kinship warms her throat and tummy.

No, Dad needs her. Dad needs her.

His heart still beats when she hugs him and his grip is tighter than usual, less flippant and forgotten.

Then what's she doing here?

Asami jaw clenches. She looks so much like her mother. She's a reminder outside of the pictures her father stares at like they hide spirits skittering in the gray corners, waiting to crawl out at his summons.

Besides, he has new distractions. People she guessed were "condolencers" or whatever they call people who give meaningless condolences to those they hardly know. Knock knock, and here come two men like characters out of ancient scrolls. One is a tall, thin man that reminded her of a weasel-snake. She doesn't like his crack-toothed smile, doesn't like how his companion always burrows himself hidden under a cloak. She is just a little girl, now surrounded by grown men.

There are no women with soft folds to tuck her into and steal her away from the grimness of lights glinting off uninterested eyes. Eyes who don't care about her, don't even care about themselves. Her strong, blunt father who collapses in the hallway and weeps her mother's name in harsh gulps. The man with the funny mustache, the man with a low voice and no face.

They hole themselves into her dad's office, bring more men, men who smell of streets Asami never had had to step onto. She wishes that she can give them a bath, make their frowns and muddy tear tracks disappear. She hushes, stays in her room with its myriad toys and colors and size fit for a princess—what's expected of her. The demure, clueless child stricken with an affluent background. Helpless, pretty, sad. The princess acting as the prince and magical caretaker.

She sits there with her hands all prim and settled in her lap, biting her lip. For how long has she sat there? And then footsteps resound, echoing from behind like thick raindrops and fire, the worst element, kindles inside her. She can't go anywhere, can't do anything in quiet! Stupid, stupid people who think they knew her mother and buddy up with her rich dad.

"What are you doing?" a deep voice says, and she looks up to see the creepy mustache guy. Not allowing herself to shrink back, she straightens her posture. He watches her with kind eyes, though his sharp features make him look devious.

"I'm going out for a drive," Asami says, tilting her chin up defiantly.

The weasel-snake man frowns. "Your father's been worried. Aren't you a bit young to drive?"

Asami breaks the eye contact, brushing her fingers against the steering wheel. "My dad made them. I can use them whenever I want." Always—people telling her where she should be, who she should know, what she can't do.

The mustache man gestures to the passenger seat beside her. "May I?"

She bristles, still not meeting his gaze. "No, I don't know you."

"I'm a friend of your father's."

Asami laughs, a sound that startles the man. It's such an adult thing—to laugh with so much contempt. "Everyone's my dad's friend, but I'm the one who picks up after him."

The weasel-snake man maintains his frown. Yes, he's heard the slurring voice, seen the shirts buttoned incorrectly like a child's broken puzzle. And a heat boils in his stomach at the thought of Hiroshi's grief; he'd never thought Asami would be exposed to that side of Mr. Sato. Hiroshi Sato, a man of poise and merit, allowing his child to lose moth parent in the span of a few weeks. He steps away and leans on the hood of the car, and Asami follows his every move with darkened rabbit-doe eyes.

Without turning toward the girl, the weasel-snake man says, "You seem like a tough girl. Have you ever been taught how to defend yourself?"

Asami chews on the inside of her cheek before replying, "Kick the bad places."

"The world won't be generous to you. You'll have people constantly trying to manipulate you because of your status. A nonbending women above them—it frightens them, and they'll want to control you." His eyes bore into her then, a watery blue that says things to Asami about how her mom's a spirit now, where they can't touch or meet again. "Don't give them a chance to doubt you."

Asami bows her head because she won't cry. Not in front of her dad, not in front of strange men, though those terms have intermingled lately.

If the weasel-snake man were to scratch out his own eyes and replace them with the scarred man's, he'd only witness the blood of the benders. The solution to the pain: removal. But the man with blue eyes sees that there's more to healing than taking away.

Something buzzes at his feet. A familiar sound. Pushing away from the car, the weasel-snake man steps on the spider-wasp, satisfied in the faint crunch. He never much liked spider-rats or spider-wasps. Acquainted with quite a few of 'em on the job.

* * *

"Are you okay?" Asami says, her forehead creasing in worry. She sits beside him, her legs hanging off the dome. There are shouts below, but she doesn't listen. "I don't understand. What are you doing here?"

"You don't recognize me?"

"Of course I do. You're my father's old friend. You're . . ." She looks down, closing her eyes briefly before peering at him again. Her mouth is straightened. "You're Amon's second-in-command?"

"I've retired," the Lieutenant says with a joyless grin. His eyes meet her own, the skin under his eyes swollen from what he will account to a nasty blow to his head. "Or rather, I've been relieved of duty."

Asami curbs the disappointment in her voice. All of the important people in her life—no, now's not the time for self-pity. This isn't about her insecurities. Not when others are counting on her. "I've fought you."

"And beat me a couple of times."

"You've hurt dozens of innocent people. And you were my father's 'friend', which means you convinced him to destroy everything he worked for."

"Both your father and I joined Amon under similar circumstances," the Lieutenant says, "but the only difference was that he had a child to protect."

"That makes it worse. He betrayed me. He gave me up to pursue an agenda for revenge a-and—_hate_. He hurt my friends."

The Lieutenant's arms dangle carelessly in front of him as he slouches. "Well, I'm not in your shoes, but in my eyes, that's the most important reason for joining the Equalists: a better future for the next generation. So you wouldn't end up like your mother. That's all your father wanted."

Asami frowns. "He told me I was ungrateful and tried to _murder _me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the Lieutenant says with surprising softness. He's the first person to hand her an apology that doesn't result in an exit. Her mother, her father, they both apologized. "You were his only reason for living."

"And the man in the cloak?"

"Yes," he answers, and then adds, "Amon is gone."

_Coward. Traitor._

"Did he kidnap Korra?" Her voice is cold, demanding, lined with indignation. "Did he take her bending?"

He rotates his head to consider her question, her pleading eyes. Even with her gentleness, there's no frailty concentrated inside of this individual.

Admittedly, he'd been too indignant to bother checking on the Avatar's status. She'd been on the ground when he'd confronted Amon. She had one arm keeping herself from lying fully on her side.

"I don't know. Her firebender friend couldn't find her. At least when we were in that same room."

They stand, her hand around his arm tightly. She releases him only when he's stable, then rethinks it and clutches his arm again. Even if this man assisted in orchestrating a movement that caused so much harm to the city, she believes in his intentions. Benders do have more power than nonbenders, and a tiger-cobra will strike when cornered long enough, but there has to be a way to settle things without a permanent divide between benders and nonbenders.

The Lieutenant spreads his arms out like a bird ready for flight, separating his fingers. Everything he's prepared for has gone to shambles. Never again will he taste victory.

"Don't jump," Asami says, "please."

A bitter smile. This cunning woman who's gone through so much—still clinging to idealism, still brimming with assurances like he once did. They were what he thrived upon before he found reason.

"Our leader is a traitor!" he shouts. He peers down. An assortment of faces regard him. Soldiers, civilians, masked and unmasked. Some with mouths opening, telling him to retreat from the edge of the roof, some spouting asinine questions.

Noatak. That name chimes in his mind. When the former Councilman said it, he shrugged it off. Yes, he presumed that Tarrlok called upon a relative in the darkest time of his left, but he didn't attribute that name to the man who stood beside him in their conquest against the bending elite and their supporters.

Grimacing, eyes wild, he steps away from the edge.

"If my brothers and sisters must be in chains for fighting tyranny," the Lieutenant says hoarsely, the hope dying in his eyes, "then I will join them."

* * *

The next few days, at the reclaimed air temple, Mako grows ill. They hover in and around the room he sleeps in, his brother and Asami. Only at night. There's so many preparations to make, so many repairs. Several people are recovering from their lost bending as well, and the United Forces is flooded with tasks. A widespread manhunt that is too sparse when their efforts are needed in the city, in other areas of the world to ensure stability.

And so Tenzin cares for his family and waits uneasily. Has his pupil, an incarnation of his father, met harm? Surely Amon is not so unhinged.

"Y'know," Bumi says, "I always thought you two were too serious for each other. Opposites attract. You need someone with a sense of—"

"Not the time, Bumi," Lin says. They peer at the boy's unconscious form. Mako hasn't awakened since his brother found him, but they need answers.

"I'm sorry about your father." Iroh sets a hand on Asami's shoulder.

She smiles sadly and grips his hand into hers, lifting it off. "Don't be. He made his choice." Bolin paces, and Asami goes to him.

"We haven't found Councilman Tarrlok anywhere," Bumi says with unnatural seriousness. "He wasn't at the top of the temple."

"They took her," Mako says, eyes boring into the ceiling. They shift their attentions to him in astonishment. "I—he took my bending, and when I woke up, she was gone."

"Bro!" Bolin is at his side in an instant.

Tenzin shakes his head. "Why would he—he can't kidnap Korra, unless—"

Mako says, "He took her bending first."

Lin closes her eyes, her head lowering. "No."

"Mako, are you sure?"

Bumi says, "And are you _sure_ he took her?"

His hands balling into fists on the sheets, Mako says, "I don't think she'd walk out and leave."

"If that's the case, do you think Amon might be responsible for Tarrlok not being in the attic?"

"That's ridiculous. Why would Tarrlok and Amon work together?"

"They're brothers," Mako rasps. A stunned moment passes.

"Whoa," Bolin says, his face pained, "first Tarrlok is Yakone's son, and then—how?"

"You haven't heard yet?" Mako replies, remembering the rally. "Amon used bloodbending to take people's bending away." They had heard from whispers in the streets, but several, several false reports were coming as the city was thrown into chaos. Now, some refuse to leave their homes. Others start brawls, pointing fingers and committing awful deeds: arson; murder; impolite hand gestures.

"He can bloodbend with his mind," Mako says, "and he has Korra. I've got to . . ." Bolin steadies his brother when Mako sits up.

"I'm here for you, bro." Mako's head swarms. _What if he's killed her?_

Lin says quietly, "And now we don't know where he is." Yakone attacked her mother all those years ago, and his legacy has once again submerged the city into anarchy.

"Have they been working together all along?" Asami asks.

"No," Mako says, "at least, Tarrlok says he just found out."

"And you thought we had a rough relationship," Bumi says to Tenzin. "Makes you glad for our family, doesn't it?"

* * *

"Asami, I'm sorry for what I put you through." Worry etches into her forehead, the tilt of her lips. He's the one confined to a bed.

"Just rest. You're going to be okay." Asami reaches out to pat his trembling hand.

"All of this time, I've blamed Bolin for how I act. Then I blamed Korra." Mako turns his head, his cheek against the pillow. "Your dad, is he—"

"He's in prison."

"I'm sorry, Asami." To himself, he says, "I couldn't save her."

Asami rests a hand on his. "Korra's one of the strongest people I know, Mako. She doesn't need anyone to save her."

Later, when Tenzin goes outside in the dead of night, Naga greets him, padding along the path back and forth until her pads are sore. Going to the docks and howling. She whines dolefully.

"Don't worry, girl," Tenzin says, wishing he can reassure everyone. That he can reassure himself. "We'll find her."

* * *

When the Lieutenant was arrested, the wind at his back, he passed some of Amon's followers. His followers. As they passed him, they nodded or bowed their heads.

"Everything Amon said was a lie," he whispers. The visitor room is cramped, angular, and gray.

Asami doesn't know what it's like for the foundation of her life's purpose to be a lie. What it's like to stand up for something so distant, but maybe she'll learn.

She's had the stability torn from under her after her father's deceit. After he attempted to kill her. She can't condone the indiscriminate bombing of the city, the violence. Yes, she's a privileged nonbender, and she's sheltered, but that doesn't mean that she cannot try. Now that she's in control of her father's company, there must be something she can do to help her people without bloodshed. But will they listen to a pampered traitor of a woman?

"I know that it's over," he says numbly.

_You served me well, Lieutenant._

His fingers twitch. He was a servant. The benders marched around as the spirit-blessed ones, but then there was Amon, someone chosen by the spirits to confront them.

No, he won't get choked up in front of Sato's daughter.

Lifting her hand off of the doorknob, Asami settles in the chair across from him, resting her elbows on the table. She mellows her expressions. All of her life, she's rarely had to need something, to have something out of her grasp.

"What my father tried to do—it was wrong. But I do think nonbenders have legitimate grievances, and prejudices against us will be stronger than ever before." She waits for him to respond to her statement. When he doesn't, she continues, "I'm the new president of Future Industries. If money and influence are what sway the powerful, then I think I have a fighting chance."

The Lieutenant says, his voice gruff, "You don't think we've tried to do matters peacefully? Benders never listen, and even if they do, they have all of the time in the world. You're Hiroshi's daughter, which benders will only accept as a chance to discredit you."

"I've also proven time and time again that I'll fight alongside the Avatar."

"Then you'll make no friends with my companions. My brothers and sisters have no love for the Avatar's methods of 'protecting' the city." The Lieutenant narrows his eyes, his mouth set into a firm line. "What are you playing at?"

"I don't think the police force will pardon all of the Equalists, and I don't agree with your methods, but there is a problem, an inequality. I still think it can be helped through nonviolent means.

Her words are a festering wound in the back of his mind. It won't work. It never works. If people are not forced to act, they will be passive.

"It didn't work then. It won't work now," he says.

Asami nods, smiling with no mirth laced into her countenance. "I promise you, this isn't the end."


	5. Noatak II

_We weren't rich, and none of us were benders._

The Equalists will fall without him, but it's of no importance anymore. The power only sullied his conscience.

The Avatar is in such poor shape that it's clear that perhaps he never needed to chi-block her at all; it's been awhile since he's done so to a nonbender, but one can never be too cautious.

She growls and spits at him when he attempts to help her. The boat reeks of her vomit, though she's never actually thrown up on the boat floor. She's reduced to this. Gifted before her time. Twelve years before one is supposed to know they're the Avatar. It'll be a wonder if she doesn't become dehydrated. Noatak wanted her to see her airbending mentor have his bending removed just so she would know not to cross him, not to test him when he is superior to her.

They were both blessed and cursed through birth. They both trained over something the fates ordained. Yet he and Tarrlok suffered, and she's been cocooned elsewhere, adored and given attention when she's just a petulant child at heart. He suspects that her stronger connection to the elements has caused a more severe reaction toward her loss than any of the other benders.

He had to, he had to take away his brother's bending. It isn't an unforgivable act. He's liberated both of them, Tarrlok and the Avatar. Can't they see how much it's ruined him to have bending as his last crutch?

(That is my fault.)

* * *

It's on a drizzling night that a young Noatak discovers a group of people his age fighting in Dragon Flats. Carved with precision, Firelord Zuko stands several feet above them all, and the fires spouting from his prestigious statue are the only sources of light besides the dwindling street lamps.

The sidewalk slick under his feet, he approaches the boys and girls, many probably a few years younger than him. The smaller ones with their round cheeks remind him of Tarrlok. He narrows his eyes. Their blows aren't frenzied. They're training.

"_Noatak, don't leave, please! Noatak!"_

None of them are bending at each other. They're different sizes, though their clothes are all battered. Some are scraggly, but others have a substantial amount of muscles. Noatak, while not wearing anything particularly decadent, is out of place. Even when he's fallen, he's better off. He's been lucky.

"The scrapping tournament is only a few months away!" one says worriedly, dodging a blow.

He's ashamed. He doesn't belong with all of these sad people, the people who have legitimate reasons for their desperation, the people who are the victims and not the predators. He's the problem, not the solution. Their lives were sullied because of forces beyond their control.

But hasn't fate done the same to him? He can't help it who his father is. How could he rally himself against his own kin? He'd only been a child.

No, no, this is not a burden. It's a new start. He deserves whatever hardships come his way. He'll never bloodbend again. Whatever may have happened to Tarrlok when his father awoke (he should've killed him, but he loved the man awfully, selfishly), they have this disease in their blood. The dark, terrible thought occurs to him: perhaps it'd be for the best if Tarrlok died somehow. If their father released all of his rage and killed Tarrlok and their mother. They wouldn't fight back; they both let Yakone do whatever he wished.

Their father could've hacked Tarrlok to pieces, could've left the remains for the wolves, and Tarrlok would've cowered and quivered and let him do it. Noatak doesn't know; he's as well-informed about Tarrlok's fate as Tarrlok is about his whereabouts.

"Oof!" A boy lands on his back, smacking the pavement. Noatak tenses, remembers the feeling underneath his fingertips as he flung his father into the snow, the pulse rising in his throat as he refused to look back.

He won't cry. He won't stand down. He suppressed his tears many times when needing to be strong for Tarrlok. He broke when he murdered the ailing child, but maybe the flood of goodness in his heart then undid him. For once, besides when coddling Tarrlok, he'd put another's pain before proving himself.

Or did he do it to reaffirm that he has the power to take a life?

His shoulders slump. "Relax, man. We're just horsin' around." There's a cacophonous chorus of voices around him. Laughter and grunts.

He tells himself that he is not Noatak, and that these boys are not Tarrlok. They're like him. He's not Noatak, not Noatak. He's an orphan. He has no family. It was stolen from him long ago. When he was a child. When his father fell before him and became a wraith.

He's always been the protector, sacrificing his own comforts for his baby brother. He'd been a jealous child at first; Tarrlok was a demanding infant. Always fussing.

He's surrounded by several people, people who actually notice him and scrutinize. Something so suffocating, even after being at the city for awhile. The tribe seems desolate in comparison, though he has less companionship here than at home.

Someone slaps his back and almost knocks the breath out of him. "Hey, looks like the Duang boys have picked up another stray!"

"What are you doing?" Noatak says.

The guy closest to him says, "Senior Shin's gonna give us some major yuans if Jahntu here can beat Heavy Huang in the next battle." He points to a boy at least two heads taller than Noatak with nicks all over his arms. "These other jokesters 'round here think they can top us."

"Battle?" Noatak says.

"Street-fighting," the tall one corrects.

"If you're hurting for some dough, you can join in, but you're kinda—lean."

A boy with a busted lip says, "Scrawny."

Another young man holds his hands up. "Oops. Hey, his words, not mine. My name is Feng, by the way. I'll tell you about someone who can teach you how to move like a waterbender!"

Memories of that altercation flood in, the one where he fell and lost himself in a fever of hunger and confusion, almost as if he'd been unconscious. Humiliation rakes across his belly. Then, he'd been fading, ghosting between life and death. And he is strong—well no, he has power.

Noatak gulps. "I can't bend." He reminds himself every day that he's pretending to be a nonbender. Bending is just too close to the past. To his father and mother and Tarrlok and the snow and the wolves.

Feng rolls his eyes and grins. A front tooth is missing. "I said _move _like a waterbender, _not _be one. I can have you meet someone who can teach you how to stop people from using their bending—if she's willing to teach you."

"My brother was a waterbender," Noatak says evenly, "and he was never taught any of these moves I've seen."

"Who'd your dad learn it from, his gramma? Bending isn't stagnant. It flows. Hey, like I said, there's this woman who can show you. I mean, sure you're thin, but you look at least fed and all." The boy says "fed" like it's a profane word. "But we just call her Sifu. Her real name's Rin. She used to be a real good fighter before her bum leg, and we need stronger people to get on the team. Get us some publicity and rake in the yuans. You in? Look for Rin and Gimpy over at this rundown joint. I'll show you sometime. You live 'round here?"

"Gimpy?"

"Yeah, a cop once got a bit agitated when he wouldn't answer some questions. Planted this huge piece of debris from an old building on Gimpy's leg. It never fully healed. Tragic. At least he got a nice walking stick. It's amazing what the other side flings into dumpsters. And Rin's all scarred up. And she has a bad leg too, imagine that, but she's not called 'Gimpy'. Nice woman, though. Leads the cleanest brothel I've ever seen." Feng grins sheepishly. "Not that I've really seen it."

* * *

"Y'know man," a worker at one of his odd jobs once told him, "ya gotta loosen up. Life's rough enough without being so serious every hour of the day."

Noatak enters the joint. It's a diner. There's no sign to say what the place is called. There's something sticky on the floor, frantic squeaking. The spider-rats here are fat and juicy, with discernible spots where their hair has fallen out in black patches. One patron has lesions on his neck and shoulders. Another stuffs his face with this coagulated mush that looks like soggy crackers. To be fair, it's the nicest place in town.

He sees a man and a woman, examines the scars on her face. He notices that they sit beside each other and not in such a way that they can see each other from the booths by facing each other, yet they don't seem like lovers. In fact, they seen unenthusiastic about being elbow-to-elbow.

When he introduces himself, Gimpy holds a hand up. "Not so loud, kid. Make yourself comfy. Just try not to fall through one of the holes. I don't think the food is the only questionable thing they fished outta the trash." The man waits for Noatak to laugh, but he only responds by sitting down.

"You're from the Water Tribe, right? You're lookin' kinda peckish."

"The Water Tribe?" Rin replies. "There are two of them."

Gimpy says nonchalantly, "What's the difference? Same clothes, same style."

"One's in the north and one's in the south."

"Please Rin, I'm a purebred city boy. Geography's never been my strongsuit. When you're thrown out onto the aisle of hardknocks, you get a whole different set of worldliness, you hear? Now if you want me to tell you about the best gambling joints with the cheapest, slickest—" Rin's mouth curls in mock expectance. Gimpy hesitates. "—uh, booze, then hit me up."

Rin says icily, "I see enough drunken, licentious bums in my line of work."

"Whoa, too wordy for my tastes."

"What happened to you?" Noatak asks Rin. There are pockets of skin in her cheeks where it looks gouged out, burnt.

Rin smiles ruefully. "I'd rather keep that to myself."

"You—you walk the streets?"

"I'm not a woman of the old profession, if that's what you mean." She barks out a bitter laugh. "Even if I wanted, I doubt I could scrape up any customers."

Does he really care about these people's plights? What should he say to her? That she's pretty? What good will that do? Will that erase her scars?

"She's their provider," Gimpy explains.

"Like opiates?"

"No," Rin says, "I try to get my girls clean. Life's hard enough when your mind's not clouded over with junk."

Gimpy rolls his head to the side. "It's more honest than running with the 'soons."

"What can you tell me about Senior Shin?"

"Heyyy, now. That's a loaded question, Mister . . ."

Noatak tells him a false name. He has several under his sleeves.

Rin tenses. Gimpy extends a hand, and Noatak at first starts to reach out to shake his hand, but the man rubs his forefinger and thumb together. "How much are you willing to split with for info?"

Rin looks at Gimpy, then Noatak. Her features are sharp, probably Fire Nation. Her tone is amicable. "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to learn how to fight." Rin and Gimpy exhange a glance. Rin sighs, but it's her friend who replies.

"Nothin' but a buncha gangsters lining up to watch poor rats like us fight over scraps. Senior Shin?" Gimpy twirls his beard around his finger, as if contemplating. "He's the baddest wolf-cat since Yakone, and he's as vicious as a starving lion-moose."

"Yakone." Noatak gazes somewhere behind them, swallowing before he says, "Who's that?"

Rin grins, her skin crinkling, her eyes lighting up. Noatak notes that she's very pretty to him. "You must not be from around here."

Noatak shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Everyone's got a story," Gimpy says.

"I just carry shipments."

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes dim. "You tellin' me you ain't got a lick of know-how about Yakone? He was the head of the Red Monsoons." He presses a finger to his temple. "He could bloodbend with his mind."

Rin leans back against the booth. "Been about twenty or so years without that spider-roach." Spider-roach. What does that make his sons?

Noatak shivers. "Yeah, he sounds—evil. What happened to him?"

"Nobody knows. He had accomplices all 'round. 'Sides, who wants to get on the bad side of someone who can turn you all inside-out? Life in prison? Pf-hah! They should've hanged him right then and there!" Pacifism was what started this in the first place. If Aang hadn't been intent on nonviolence, Noatak and his brother wouldn't have been conceived. Oh, if only.

Rin says dryly, "Hard to do when you can't move."

"See," Gimpy says, "what Avatar Aang doesn't know is how bad it's got. The 'soons are carting around some major, expert waterbenders that dabble in some bad mojo, see what I'm getting at? They're discreet, move locations."

"Why don't you just tell the police?"

Gimpy guffaws raucously. "Oh, did you hear that? Kid, what're you doing being a crate mule? You should jump on stage and spin funnies all day!"

Noatak loses all feeling in his voice as he says, "I shouldn't have been born."

"Ah, did your mama back out of the whole back alleyway thing? 'Cause I know this guy who can un-eggo a preggo and ensure that there's no infection, nothing left. His patients can quote me on that."

"They won't," Rin says faintly.

"Well, they'd use fancier euphemisms, but you catch my drift. The result's all that matters. People can hardly afford kids nowadays, and all of those dinky shops with rue and those kinda herbs are havin' their businesses go up in flames, and that's not always a figurative expression." Noatak considers the men who harass the people he lives with.

"No, it wasn't like that," he replies, pressing his hands together as if warming them. Just then, some kid about his age meanders in and walks over to the table. His clothes are marked with paint.

"Hey, any of you seen Liu? A guy's asking for him."

"Liu?" Gimpy says, as if humoring himself. "Ain't seen a Liu. Try the other seedy dump across the street."

The boy looks thoughtful. "Liu—I think his name's Liu. Liu Tenant."

Gimpy says somewhat quietly to Noatak, "Means well, but not the brightest one there is." To the young man, he says, "Think he said 'Lieutenant', Rong?"

Rong nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, that's it!"

"He normally shows up here on his break." Gimpy smirks. "He was real ragged last time he graced us with his presence."

"And you're bright?" Rin raises one of her eyebrows.

"I'm the most educated thug you'll find." Rong scampers off.

"His dad was a doctor," Rin tells Noatak, her voice clipped. "One of those ones that moves around fat from the rear and stuffs it in rich old people's lips and bosoms so they don't sag."

"Me and the old man had a falling out a long time ago."

"You were selling his medical junk on the streets."

"I'd like to think I was performing a noble service. Letting my fellow alley-dwellers forget the pains of the day."

Noatak's fingers twitch. All he has are questions, and he only came here to ask one that's still pending, but all he can think about is Yakone. "The Lieutenant?"

"Some drunk has-been. Comes in hollerin' and crying, gets to scrappin', and gets his tired ol' can handed to him. Only his wife could've probably stood him."

Rin purses her lips. "He's a good, honest man. Works hard. And he wasn't a drinker until after her death."

Gimpy sighs. "They should make a Dead Wives Society for this scene here, man."

"Why do they call him Lieutenant?" Noatak asks, tilting his head.

Gimpy shrugs. "Fella joined the United Forces. Not that great of a fighter, but pretty much bred to follow orders and keep chargin' on long before he hit puberty and his ratty ol' 'stache grew in. Went from killing crooks to killing spider-rats, just like Sweet Sanook at the corner went from card tricks to turning tricks. He worked with repairs."

"Why?" Noatak says. "I mean, why did he leave?"

"Nonbenders don't fair too well," Gimpy replies. "You get booted out when the news stuff rolls in. Gizmos, trained benders. Why are they gonna let Limp Li over here take the time to learn how to fight with a weapon when they have guys who can pump fireballs into the air and roast the competition? Why have people deal with generating electricity who aren't lightningbenders?"

Noatak swallows a lump in his throat. Indecision. If only everything can be clear. "But bending takes extensive training as well."

Gimpy brushes the lint off of his oversized suit. "How much training do you need to blow fire in someone's face?"

It's said flippantly, and part of Noatak detests the question. Bending isn't a product of stress and persistence anymore, but he had worked hard to perfect it. For what, exactly? His father's approval. Now he shuns it.

What does he have to live for? Why did he run away? Why then? Oh, he can imagine his dad's expression if he goes crawling back.

_I made you. You're mine._

Losing his nerve, Noatak says, "I need to go."

"Good luck, kid. Maybe you'll beef up and get a deeper voice." Gimpy pokes his shoulder. Noatak doesn't laugh.

Uncertainly, he says, "Maybe."

Later, he finds Rin alone outside of the diner, and, not in the presence of the other, much louder individual, she agrees to teach him.

* * *

The apartment complex where Rin resides with her employees isn't as badly kept as Noatak expects. While he hasn't ventured into a residences where prostitutes live, he's seen many grungy places on this side of the city, so it's odd to see somewhere that's so—bare. Perhaps it's a crude metaphor for something else.

He sits blank-eyed in a chair bound with thick wrappings of tape, and Rin stands with her back to him. She isn't personable, and Noatak quite likes that. He supposes someone without a steady life has to learn to let go of attachments. Apparently, the Avatar is supposed to be removed from earthly things, yet he had a family.

"Who was that guy?"

"He hasn't much common sense. Dresses like he's from the other side, too good for a normal cane, but he's decent enough company for a chat." Noatak decides not to pry. He doesn't catch the vibe that they are close in any intimate way, but it's none of his business.

"I—I've seen a lot of people practicing and fighting in the street. I've never seen their methods before."

"They participate in bloodsports for money, then they believe they can get into good graces with the gangs that howl at them in laughter and bet on them." The bitterness in her voice is enough for him to envision what her expression must be. "The benders pit them against each other like bull-hounds."

"If you don't like it, why don't you beat them yourself—the gang people?"

"I'm an instructor. Have you ever heard that those who can't do teach instead?"

"No," Noatak says, bemused, "if you can teach fighting—?"

"My leg. I can hardly walk. Accident."

"A long time ago?"

"Recently." She moves on. "I guess, in a way, it's like these women and the few men who stay here. It's horrible that they're forced into this, not by my hand, but by their circumstances, but if they must take this path, I'll offer them what I can."

"You—is it good to—" He gestures as if to encompass the world around him, though he knows she can't see him. "—to be in the middle of an operation like this?"

She swivels to face him. Her features are reserved. "If it's their last option, then it's just as cruel to steal that away. And they are free to leave. They came to me with bruises and broken fingers. I never coerced them."

"Did you always . . ."

"What, run a whorehouse?" she says wryly. "No, like I said, if they have no other feasible choice, I can teach them to protect themselves and stay sober. The Avatar can't be in all of the areas that need him, but you'd think he'd protect his own city, the one that reveres him, his bastion of hope and progress."

"I'm not interested in doing—that. I mean, I'm not here to—"

"That's acceptable, I suppose. I didn't agree to assist you so you could get laid." He flushes. "I can tell you all you need to know." She rests a hand on her water basin idly. "My father and mother taught me, me and my sisters."

"The world would be a better place if nonbenders all had good fighting skills."

"I admire your idealism. No, I envy it."

"What happened to you?"

"You keep asking a bold question to a stanger, so now I must ask you this: if I tell you about my life, would you impart the same amount of information about yourself?"

Noatak bows his head and shakes his head slightly. "No, I'm sorry."

The corner of her mouth lifts sardonically. "Very well." She sets her walking cane down and sits on the bed with its iron frame, fingers splayed on her knees. "I teach them how to defend themselves. I teach nearly anyone who asks."

"What do you teach?" Rin leans to the side and pulls out something under her bed.

"Here." She holds the yellowed scrolls out and, Noatak stands and takes them, thanking her softly. "Chi-blocking."

He unrolls the papers to find diagrams, extensive labels on intricate designs of the human anatomy. Pressing his fingers to the thin papers and tracing the patterns lightly, he says, "My dad made me hurt my brother."

"Was he a bender?" Rin asks almost instantly, an edge in her voice. Noatak wraps his arms around himself, still holding the papers in one hand.

"My father wasn't. My brother was."

"They burned my mother alive in front of me." Rin's voice is stilted. "She looked at me the entire time, and I never broke eye contact. My youngest sister was four, but they didn't let her live, and so I asked the spirits why I was spared. Why not Mei-Li or—or—and eventually I stopped believing in them. The spirits."

Noatak hears laughter outside of the door, and he bows his head.

* * *

And so Noatak learns how to fight. Gracelessly at first. With scrapes and knots and bruises. When he hears laughter in the streets, he has to remind himself that he is not Yakone's son when he daydreams of tearing their lungs out of their ribs. The taste of blood, the pang in his knuckles makes him forget. He's not the cold, calculated, detached boy who was Yakone's bloodbending son.

He will never be used to the heat. Everything culminates into a sort of restlessness. As he enters the hallway of the merchant's home, his boots crack down against something. He has a bloody nose where someone whacked him, the blood drying on his hand as he holds his palm to it.

Scrapes and bruises. Noatak hasn't slept well in weeks. He drops some coins on the kitchen table, stifling his surprise when Ama is sitting there in her bathrobe. She doesn't move, her hands cradling a chipped, porcelain cup. Her hair is a ruffled mess.

He says, "Why is there glass on the floor?"

Ama smiles dully and shakes her head. "The stupid parrot-cat turned over the bookcase with Mom's heirloom clock on it. She doesn't really mind about the other objects that shattered."

"Where is she?"

"My folks're asleep," Ama says, leaning back, "and you've been coming home awful late." The room smells of parsley. Home. For them, that is. She sits up. "And your head—spirits, did you run into a train?"

"Yeah," he says, "it made an unexpected detour. It was a tough battle, but I think it won."

"Have you been street-fighting?" At her scrutinizing, Noatak turns.

"I can handle myself."

"_Noatak, don't leave, please! Noatak!"_

"You ought to be more careful." She smooths out her robe. "You work all day, and then you're getting into this kinda—stuff. You're going to end up killing yourself. You'll blow up if you keep this stuff inside." Ama props her elbows against the table.

"I'm leaving," he says.

She crosses her arms, though her voice isn't harsh. "Why?"

He pauses for a moment. He was homeless for so long. "I can't say."

Noatak figures that someone experiences loss and disappointment at least once in their life. Even those with money and pride. Then there are those who endure consecutive missteps. To refrain from losing the will to live, barriers are set and masks are worn. Constantly, purposefully.

The first step is to deny the ramifications of the loss to yourself, and the second step is to convince others of that strength, to never display frailty around them. Tarrlok and his mother may attest that openness is the solution, but they only leave themselves unprepared.

Emotionlessness is a step closer to Yakone. Not caring about others' troubles. If he gives into despair though, he risks a complete breakdown. He can't mull about in the past. He can't stay stagnated any longer.

"See you, then," Ama says. Noatak does not reply. His mother often said that goodbyes are not final until both parties bid their farewells.

* * *

Later, he moves into the apartment complex. He and Rin train, though there is little said between them, no lines crossed. She tells him what he needs to do succinctly and without pause. She's never long-winded or impatient, and he appreciates it. It's a refreshing change from what he knows about "lessons."

Noatak spends the weeks tending to his skills. Rin shakes her head when he detects that there's something wrong with her state and refuses to talk to him about it. She suffers from a bout of cold. Alongside both women and men who live there, he goes about as if unaware. They are stone-faced, and Noatak doesn't feel obligated to be especially talkative around strangers.

Well, Rin says it is the cold that's hurting her, or it could be the past work in the Fire Nation mines catching up with her. She can still get up, but it aches. Half-washed dishes with soap and fungus lay neglected in the sink of the adjacent kitchen, and he's a bit wary to know she's not well enough to go about daily tasks. Rin coughs well into the night, and Noatak knows she will die when he sees the blood one afternoon. Soon, she's bedridden.

Noatak sits by her bed. She often has visitors, but not today. "Do you hate them?" he asks quietly. "Benders?"

"I guess I should answer that majestically, seek to be forgiving and complacent, but yes, I hate them. Benders took everything from me." She traces patterns in her bedsheets, coughing sorely. "I do not like placing blame like I've had no choice in my life, but these firebenders out in the country took out my entire family and burned my face."

The overhead light flickers. Noatak clasps his hands together and looks down, saying nothing for a good minute.

"Yes, that was my reaction as well, but you already know most of this story. We weren't rich, and none of us were benders. They burned down my home because my parents refused to pay, and I crawled out of the wreckage." It seems to be a pattern, benders asking for money from those who have so little. Why harass the poor? He guesses that it's easier for the affluent to break out of the vice of debt.

* * *

His throat dry and aching, Noatak stuffs his hands into the pockets of his gray jacket. He truly resembles any other young man in this city. Nobody can ever say that they expect that he's different in some horrific manner.

As dusk darkens the skyline, he hunches down and strolls home. He's long learned that making eye contact is only begging for harassment. He hears thudding behind him and slows, ready to lash out and disarm anyone who tries to mug him. Often, he does give to the beggars and such, but he can't give away everything, and he won't be intimidated.

"H-Help! Please." Someone yanks him by the shoulders, shaking him, and he looks into the horrified face of Feng, one of the boys who fights underneath the statue. As he moves away, Noatak notices that the skin of his knees is scraped off as he bleeds profusely.

"What's wrong?" Noatak says, gripping his shoulder. "Do you need—"

"Senior Shin—he, my brother, I was there!"

Noatak works to make Feng coherent, as if goading or calming down Tarrlok.

"Jahntu, my brother, he's in trouble. My—we—" He gulps, panting in shallow little gasps. "We broke into the Shin manor."

"Why would you do that?"

"We—we just needed the money, okay? And we wanted to do it to someone who deserved it."

"Can't you go to the police? If they have your brother hostage, they should—"

Feng shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "No, no, no, they'll arrest us. It's their justice, you know? The Shins will play the victims. Please, Noa, he's my little bro. I know we don't know each other, but—"

"Just go inside," Noatak says distantly. "I'll be back with your brother."

His chest aches from coughing.

* * *

(Last time. The last time. This'll be the last time.)

For his brother. Once this is done, he'll never bloodbend again. This night is regrettably a time not to Noatak's benefit. A group of grown men light cigars and laugh as he's flung to the ground in the darkly lit living room with a plush carpet and animal heads mounted on the walls, writhing and opening his mouth in unspoken agony as he's kept there with bloodbending.

A gruff voice says through the veil of warm pain, "What, do you fancy yourself as some sorta hero, kid?" The crumpled, exsanguinated heap next to him must be Jahntu.

"I'm not you. I'm not you. I'm not you," Noatak says to himself. It seems like a mantra born from madness.

(Last time.)

He can feel his muscles contracting. These men learned late in life how to torture others. But Noatak has spent seasons perfecting it, and not even a short break from it can purge his blood out of him. Noatak looks into the eyes of the sneering individual before him as he's forced into a kneeling position, glowering defiantly in grim satifaction. A thrill ripples through him.

If he can bleed out wolves in a matter of seconds, what are a few men?

* * *

Feng is still crouched outside the apartment complex when Noatak returns. He stands and looks hopefully at Noatak, the light dying from his eyes when his brother isn't present.

"Here." Noatak hands the other young man a pouch of coins, and Feng stuffs it in his jacket pocket. It won't replace a brother. "I'm sorry. You won't be bothered again."

(He isn't one of them. They aren't his people. He's a wolf under wool. He can't be a savior.)

Peace. Something he's longed for ever since his father told him what his dead-end course in life would be.

_His name means "peace" in an old tongue._

_You two will become bloodbenders of the highest order. _He'd be more powerful than the Avatar.

"What happened to my brother?" Feng asks desperately. It reminds him of his brother's worried glances, what Tarrlok must think of him now. Noatak can't even look at himself without wanting to break his body in some irreparable way.

When Noatak just looks at him solemnly, Feng suddenly crushes himself against him and weeps, animal sounds erupting from deep within him. They stand that way for awhile, before Feng pulls away and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Are you okay?" he says weakly.

Noatak grunts noncommittally. "I'll survive."

"Are they dead?"

"Yes. Your brother was already gone, but I found a way to kill them."

Suddenly, Feng shakes his hand. "Thank you." He begins to sob again. Without another word, Noatak enters the complex, head hanging when he becomes resolute.

It's an abomination of the spirits. He imagines what the old waterbenders would say, how the moon herself would respond to the atrocities he's committed, how he defies the order of nature by merely existing. Yet he can't end it all because all he's done is resort to whatever low tactics it takes to survive. Bleeding himself out just isn't ingrained in him.

No, no. Not again. Not ever again. He'll be a nonbender. Even when it's the full moon and his muscles ache as the ocean calls to him and his own blood mimicks the thrumming of the tides.

He knocks on the door to Rin's room. When she lets him in, she is still in her day clothes, rumpled and stained. Not bothering to sit down, he looks into her eyes and realizes that he's everything that has sought to crush her will; everything she detests and fights against.

"Where have you been?" she asks.

He purses his lips and closes his eyes, his hands turning into fists and his nails digging into his skin. "I can bloodbend." She just freezes, then her expressions darkens, but she says nothing. "I'm a bender. My father is Yakone. He couldn't bend because the Avatar stole his power from him. He escaped to one of the tribes."

Rin regards him placidly, with eerie calmness. She seems to lean on her weaker side, relying heavily on her cane. "Get out." Each hurt, scant word punches through to his defenses.

"I learned how to kill things with my mind, without moving my hands."

Her lips tremble. "Get out—or I will kill you." She picks something up from her nightstand, something to use against intruders, and he knows that she's serious.

Tears form in his eyes. "But I don't want to rely on it anymore. It's wrong, and I—I j-just want to forget it all."

She lunges, and the dagger cuts his cheek. She teeters off of her walking stick, gasping and shuddering in pain on the floor, holding her chest and coughing as rolls on her side and curls up. Tentatively, he moves to help her, and Rin recoils from his touch, not even cursing him. The open wound on his cheek twinges, and he wordlessly departs.

He'll end himself—become someone worthy of existence. He won't let anyone else have the responsibility of killing him. The exact opposite of his father; his father coerced others for his own gain. Noatak will save these people so they don't have to walk around afraid. The face of these people—disfigured. He'll use comfort and security to help them, not himself. He'll give up this "art" for good.

Ahh, so this is where honestly finds him. If he's honest about his nature, he's a monster. It's all he's ever been, ever since he shut himself off to the cries of the beasts. When it hardly even registered when Tarrlok yelled out and fell before him. Or did he yell? Even Noatak's mind is dishonest with him.

* * *

Amon's new home is an apartment he rents. In a way, he's nothing more than a petty vigilante. His face is covered by the hoods of his cloaks, by scarves. He's unreadable. The bloody guilt can't be seen thick and crusted and red on his countenance.

He no longer uses his waterbending or his bloodbending. One night, he doesn't think anything of it when he saves a man from a group of thugs. It's so easy to block their chi-points and outmaneuver them. He expects it to be another routine act of kindness on his part. He really doesn't care for any attention. He exists, and that's all.

"Wait, stranger! I haven't gotten a chance to thank you." As he moves to walk away, he's intercepted. "I'm the Lieutenant," the man says, bloodshot eyes shining with gratefulness.

"The Lieutenant of what?"

The man leans his head back and laughs. "Nothing." Surely this isn't the same person he'd been told about awhile ago. Can someone live in a dejected stupor for so long without killing themselves? His face is gaunt and ashen. "You saved me. I owe you my life." It startles Amon for a second. "Can I see you?"

Amon reflexively moves his hand in front of his covered face. "No, it's—hurt."

"Who are you?"

And Amon conjures up what little bravery he can. The fearlessness when he peered straight into the golden eyes of snarling wolves.

A few days later, the Lieutenant gives him a porcelain mask. His wife would always go to these plays before her death, and she bought this and hung it above the hearth. He has no use for it anymore.

They talk about how bad things are. Amon thinks about the young people falling onto the ground, bruises mottling their flesh. Dabbing worn, stained rags on their wounds.

"I want to help," he says.

He thinks of the worst moments before. He didn't cry; his body was racked with absurd bouts of laughter.

(I have no face. I have no face.)

He couldn't save his brother; his brother refused to be saved. But these people begging for a hand—he'll be that hand. He'll extend his influence to rescue, not to harm. He'll save the city from disrepair, protect the downtrodden and defenseless. Make them whole. Perhaps in the process, he'll fix himself.

* * *

As an adolescent on the streets, he'd been called a hoodlum, a street rat. He'd go days without washing himself, his clothes sticking to his skin from his own sweat; he looked into park ponds and couldn't recognize himself. He hadn't been used to the torrential downpours in the spring, the rain plopping on him until he was soaked and shivering and silently begging for one of his mother's blankets.

"Amon."

It's not as if he can discern his lieutenant's every shift in emotion; he's always so serious. Amon quite likes that, actually. His mother told him that it's best to interact with those unlike you. They'll bring out qualities you might not normally show. Though both he and his lieutenant are jaded men of few companionable words, the Lieutenant does bring out something inspirational in him, those eyes almost childlike for someone grown—with the heavy capacity of hope and pleading they contain.

"Ama Sato was burned alive in a house invasion," the Lieutenant says, his voice laden with emotion. "The Agni Triads. They had a little girl."

"Did she die as well?"

"No, she's still alive," the Lieutenant replies curtly, his voice rising. "If we want to make a difference, we can't be still any longer."

That girl he once knew—and the many younger people in the similar situation of remaining destitute to help their families in the limited ways they can. Noatak wonders what would have happened to her is she hasn't taken this route, if she would've been forced into the streets to make money with a meretricious profession. But apparently, she grew to be her husband's bright-hearted and intelligent business partner.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

* * *

They occupy everyehere they can. Amon discovers an entirely new culture of people driven underground and forming the surroundings to suit them since they have nowhere else to go.

"_Five years after the death of his wife, Hiroshi Sato unleashes his newest genius invention: the motorcycle! If you're looking to cruise in style to the closest shindig with that lucky guy or gal, visit your nearest auto dealer today!"_

He's already tried to get the Council to see reason, asking for them to add defense into the poorer school systems, since not every man is a Sato and can afford such things. Amon is nothing but fascinated with what ideas nonbenders come up with to compensate for their disadvantage. He'd been in awe when the family he'd been with purchased a new-fangled radio.

In the tenement, there's a group of older adolescents who have joined him in his efforts, three men and four women, and he hears them murmur and huddle over a radio. Most of them usually hover at a circular dining table and listen to the morning news, sipping on diluted tea.

"He's Water Tribe."

"You shouldn't make presumptions."

"Well, I mean the guy who retired was from the Northern Water Tribe."

"Heard he paid off a bunch of voters. He worked with some company, crunching numbers and cheating people."

"Pfft, what's new? Sounds like he'll make a great addition to our 'venerable' Council."

"He's young. Barely in his thirties, if that."

"That's young?"

"Most of those windbags are pushing past fifty."

"Is he handsome? Hey, just asking for research reasons."

"Councilman Tarrlok? Maybe if he laid off the tarts for about a month or two."

"_My fair city, I am honored that you've elected me to serve you. As a faithful public_—_"_

"Chump," someone jeers.

"Tool!"

_"_—_servant_—_"_

Collective laughter. But Amon crosses his arms and smirks behind his mask. He shouldn't be smiling. After all of his strides away from his past, his leech of a brother once again falls into the lap of comfort through suckling others dry. Under his breath, he says, "Well, how about that."

* * *

He can't tell which memories are real and which ones are exaggerations. One of his shoulders spasms. They're jetting through an endless expanse of water. Ennui settles in.

He's studied the world through maps. Noatak tells them that once they reach their destination, they will have to look for work. Though he didn't come completely unprepared, it's the best scenario to integrate into their new lives instead of being cooped up. Nobody answers him. How can victory sour so quickly?

He rises with the moon. Though he suppresses the connection, it still lurks in him like a parasite. Always there, always eating away at his insides. He hopes that it'll start with his heart. How he pushed himself to kill the Avatar, and if he'd just gotten rid of her, he'd be free. Yet he can't bring himself to kill her when she's so close, the evidence of both his ruining and his victory. A reminder. It's not as if she'll do good anywhere else.

Thinking of his mother and Ama and Rin, his stomach roils. No, he won't abuse the Avatar. That's not his intention, but leaving her there—well, the girl is a curse, but his brother seems rather concerned for her, though he's as quiet as death, as if contemplating. Tarrlok told her his worst secrets—their worst secrets. This young woman knows almost all sides of Tarrlok, and a few more aspects of Noatak than anyone else has ever ventured to uncover. It's nothing so sentimental as a connection of lost spirits; in fact, it's rather unfortunate for her.

_We're your sons, not your tools of revenge._

Pawns. Tools. He's given to nobody except his father and brother. Given fully, without false pretenses, that is. _You're not the solution. You're the problem. _During their brotherly squabbles, their mother would tell them that they'll never have more in common with anyone else than they have with each other.

Of course, he'd be forgetting himself if he pretended otherwise; that's a lie, there is no cohesive "himself" to contradict.

But lying makes him a coward, a traitor to those who believe what he says. So no matter what, he'll never be anything acceptable. He'll never find a home. He doesn't belong. He's an abomination. Never never never. He can't even look at himself without self-loathing dredging up—the mask cracking and shattering, fracturing on the dock—without the need to spill forth what makes his body swell with powerlust and tremble as the moon matures.

And so, as with everything else, Noatak moves ahead and silently waits for the sun.


	6. Tarrlok II

"What will we do with the boat?" Tarrlok's question comes out with this uncharacteristic, absolutely surprising softness, and he wonders if he's spoken at all ever since he realized the truth about his brother. Perhaps all of his words have been guarded by parentheses. Or maybe they're footnotes. Yes, tiny scrawls at the bottom of the text.

Even as he wishes death upon himself, Tarrlok suspects that Korra suffers the brunt of everything. Her hair is no longer settled neatly in its style. It's partly unfurled. What can he do? He pulls it away from her face when she leans over the boat and retches. Sometimes he fears she'll tumble off—only because he's considered it to be a viable option for himself for awhile now.

She nudges him away sharply with her shoulder. "Get off of me."

Korra holds her stomach. Noatak's maneuvering the boat, but he verbally tries to direct her to what supplies they do have stored there, especially the containers of water. It goes about as well as Tarrlok expects.

"You need to conserve your energy," Noatak says bluntly.

"Shut up."

"You'll get dehydrated."

"Go choke on dirt, Noatak."

His brother growls to himself, and Tarrlok sees the smile on her lips. His mother's mirthless smiles merely exuded sadness, but he doesn't know what to make of this. It's like when Korra challenged him, humiliated him in front of those under his authority.

* * *

Noatak destroys the boat when they reach the shore. He bends the water to consume and shatter it, and Tarrlok experiences a stab of jealousy, but not for the waterbending. They're all worn and tired, though Noatak hardly shows it. Often, Tarrlok asks himself if he's the captive or the captor. How much responsibility does he bear, exactly? When they walk through a narrow forest path, Korra stumbles more than once, wordlessly edges away from Tarrlok when he tries to steady her. He doesn't mean to patronize, but he truly doesn't know what else to do that's particularly useful.

His brother carries what items they do have with them. Even with her barbs, this transition affects the Avatar the worst. He will understand if she goes mad. She's settled between them, physically unbalanced and incensed, yet she carries herself with a straight back, when Tarrlok can no longer do even that, as if years of confidences have exhausted his bones.

Her eyes nervously and hatefully glance at Noatak. How far the brothers have fallen—to find victory in intimidation. Even a brash contrarian like her doesn't want to unleash whatever monstrosities Noatak can reveal. Tarrlok somewhat appreciates that he can no longer bend anymore. If he still had it, how far would he have gone before he lost himself? Had he already reached that point? What could've possibly been a worse crime than what he had done? He glances at Korra, heart constricting.

It's numbing; the Avatar and his brother spar with words-arguments that they've already had. Her tongue certainly hasn't tired.

_("I refuse to take your insults."_

"_You're a coward! An empty, egotistical coward! You still couldn't defeat me when I was at my peak."_

"_I believe that's exactly what I did—or perhaps that would be true if you actually became strong and competent. Unfortunately, you seemed preoccupied with silly sports and—"_

_"Shut up! All you did with your power was hurt others!"_

"_I gave my opponents the chance to retaliate and escape their fate."_

"_Fate? Pfft. I may not have been able too see, but I have ears. I noticed that you didn't give your lieutenant a chance to defend himself in a fight."_

"_That is none of your concern."_

"_He served you, got thrown off cliffs because he believed in you, and you—"_

"_You know nothing about my reasons for doing anything!"_

"_If you hate bending so much, why has your bending destroyed so many lives? Those nonbenders who needed a helping hand, you pretty much gave them a bad name and turned a—"_

_"Enough!"_

"_Congratulations, Noatak. Years of training, and you outsmarted a seventeen-year-old girl. Way to go!")_

And for once, Tarrlok is the most silent person there. His joints ache as he walks. He is too grown for fairytales. Tarrlok doesn't know what he wants. No, no, that's a lie. He wants to die, that's his true wish, but now he can't. He doesn't know what Noatak will do, how he'll respond, and part of him needs them to be a family again. For them to forget everything and forge a new life, to succeed where Yakone failed.

(But hasn't he already tried that? He just doesn't feel like living long enough to experience any of that.)

How is it that the Avatar doesn't regard him with the same hatred as she does Noatak? True, Tarrlok didn't steal her bending, her very identity, but he did try to ruin her.

(As if she expects more of Tarrlok. She'll be sorely disappointed.)

The only words he says: "She's perfectly justified. I hope you enjoy your success, brother." Korra glances at him in surprise. Tarrlok doesn't bother to acknowledge his brother's expression.

Oh, all he wants is to die. To die. He doesn't care if it's painful or gentle. He wants it, and he wonders why he hopes for it so fervently when he's evaded justice. Why does he need to make an evasive, final decision when he's already escaped rightful imprisonment or execution for his crimes? Essentially, the deaths of both Tarrlok and his brother will preserve the world's balance.

Wherever they go, there will always be strife. Even without a cognizant awareness, Tarrlok ransacked the city for the greater good. He knows he'll never convince his brother to see the truth, to perhaps lend a hand in his baby brother's demise. He and Korra are Noatak's puppets now.

(I hope that one day you'll find it in yourself to see me as your brother and not your pawn.)

Tarrlok rarely indulged in domesticity or affection. Love, it sounds so simplistic, so juvenile. Not that he hadn't had relationships. The most eligible bachelor drew in many admirers. Smart, innovative women. Women who never found the appreciation they deserved because Tarrlok couldn't reciprocate fully. What if his hidden nature emerged?

He has nobody, except his mother, but she'd be better off if he vanished, if she didn't know his disgraceful, unspeakable actions. It's best if his name dies away from the minds who have it stored. Even if his mother spends the rest of her days worrying, at least that's better than the knowledge of what her son did to people who couldn't fend for themselves.

She'll fold her clothes the wrong way, the way they do with the dead. Then she'll adjust; she's always done that. Countless times. She's a nonbender—would he have imprisoned her if she protested his decisions? Would he have hit her, locked her up to die?

* * *

They sleep in the woods, and, despite his physical and mental exhaustion, Tarrlok cannot stay unconscious. Thinking tires him, but, quite simply, he's the conductor of his own personal pity party. The host and the guest of honor. When he cared for such trivial frivolities like social events, he'd been a happier man. Lying, empty, but happier.

He leaves the dwindling fire where Noatak lays and Korra huddles as far as possible, reeking of sickness. Tarrlok walks until he reaches the end of the ground, when he's atop a small precipice that juts out above an expanse of water. A far enough distance above to kill anyone on impact if they fall off of the ledge. They all haven't wandered far (met land in the afternoon, and now the night is beautiful and star-laden), and he has no idea if these lands are controlled by the United Nations or not. Frankly, he doesn't care; let them hang him. He'll gladly choke.

He sits down, his shoes-well, the shoes of whoever Noatak pilfered these from-settling on the earth and his knees raised. Truly, he's nothing. His brother and Korra are the two people of interest: a bloodbender and the Avatar. He's a footnote, the straggler. Fitting, since he strove to be the headline, and it drove him to ruin.

Arms propped on his knees, he leans forward, decides against it, and then peers down again, his body cold and rigid. The wool of his collar scratches his throat.

Miserable, inviting. It's wrong that he's settled so high above his former element when he's at his lowest point, disconnected and willing to mingle his blood with the water.

At least he'll die accomplished; he assisted in plunging his city into irreparable chaos. It was fated, after all. He imagines his father's sickly, shriveling frame as Tarrlok fed him soup in bed and it no longer brings him icy contentment. He feels nothing. All pain melts away.

Turning methodical, Tarrlok asks himself questions. Should he leave something so his brother and the Avatar can get a grasp on his whereabouts? Should he wait and ascertain that his brother finds his corpse before it's swept away? Should he leave no traces at all?

The Avatar—what about her? Is this for the better? What will Noatak do? Will he repent and become a better man? They've been separated for so long.

He worked to be better than his father. To laugh at the fates, he styled his hair into three ponytails. The larger distance he ran, the more he played and tempted and joked. It was this reckless, perverse dream he had, this dream of cheating the spirits.

His heart lurches, and he has to refrain from having the stinging in eyes become something more.

(His mother looks into the distance. No matter what, they are the blood of Yakone.)

"Tarrlok?"

He turns his head. Oh, spirits. And he says (thinks?) that with weariness, not shock. Always postponed, these wishes of his.


	7. Korra II

_It's okay to be scared._

Korra says, her legs cramping, "Great, a path to nowhere."

After spending most of the trip sick, Korra's steps are sluggish. Her thoughts obscured by hopelessness, she wants to curl up into a ball and cry. Not die, not really, though darkness hovers over her like a fat cloud. Instead, with a grin to herself, she decides to redirect her frustration into something more entertaining. It's quite better than giving into the futility of it all.

She wonders who she is. She's just Korra, but Just Korra has been an identified Avatar for thirteen years. Walking into the forest, their journey seeming to go to the butt-end of nowhere, they eventually find a dirt path. They must look so weird, two men and a girl with suitcases and drab attire.

_I've messed up the line of the Avatars. I've messed up everything._

"There wouldn't be a well-worn path if it led to nowhere," Noatak replies matter-of-factly. Her travel companions prove to be horrible entertainment.

Tarrlok's eyes are downcast, and Korra can't meet his eyes. This was the man who peered down his nose at her and boasted about how inadequate she was. Maybe his losses are a way of nipping at his past deeds, but she never asked for him to have such troubles. Dismemberment, drowning in a shallow puddle, sure, but never finding out that he's Amon's brother.

(And she's alone with them both.)

Slowly, it dawns on her that this plan of hoping she will be recognized might not be so effective after all. Her appearance only became well-known after she stepped out of the compound. They know she's from the Southern Water Tribe, but, with the blurring lines between nations, they might not discern where she's from. Oh, surely they can see her Water Tribe descent, but both tribes expanded after the war. The Southern Water Tribe flourished after connecting with their brothers and sisters of the northern tribe.

Beyond that, several young adults traveled the world for a fresh start. Who knows where they went, who they married, why people like Tahno are waterbenders and don't appear to have a lick of Water Tribe in them? If she hadn't learned that Noatak and Tarrlok were brothers, she wouldn't have ever speculated such. There's hardly any physical similarities; Noatak looks every bit like a less jaded version of Yakone.

She huffs, thinking about being stuck in that metal box. Yeah, Tarrlok was desperate at the time, but if Tarrlok thought he could manipulate her with his powers so easily, what about this circumstance? It's a hostage situation, just like up at that cabin. The Avatar and an adept bloodbender. There's only one extra person, a spare.

With an extra, wobbly leap in her step, Korra says, "Hey, Noa!"

He ignores her. He's already discussed to her what he could do to the civilians she tries to confide to about her situation. She's supposed to address Ex-Councilman Weasel-Snake and Sifu Jerkbender by their pseudonyms. (Unfortunately, when she suggested that latter pseudonym, Noatak didn't seem to find it particularly appealing.)

"I'm hungry," Korra complains, bouncing once, "and I have to pee."

"You just spent several hours vomiting off the side of a boat," Noatak says, his nod curt and his gaze remaining forward, "and I couldn't care less about your bodily functions."

"Yeah, I puked all of my food up, which was mostly this soupy, gruel thingy a hobo gave me, so now my stomach's empty. I need food, and apparently you're the big, capable man."

No answer.

Korra pouts, surveying the dense brush lining the crude road. "Brother-in-law, your brother sucks and won't give me food. Isn't that what you're good at, Noatak—'hunting trips'? Where's the closest bathroom?"

Noatak says, pointing to various sights of foliage, "Let's see, over there, there, and there—"

She kicks him in the back of the knee. "You are officially the worst husband ever."

He regards her acidly, and she suspects that he's tempted to pin her against one of the trees and threaten her again with his icy words, but he merely glares. She knows he won't do such a thing with Tarrlok around. She still can't really believe this human guy is Amon, who was so elusive and intangible.

("I hope you enjoy your success, brother.")

* * *

They take a detour and set up a temporary camp site. Korra considers running as soon as Noatak falls asleep, but where will she go? Should she just hope she finds people, and what then? She won't have any clue what Noatak and Tarrlok are doing, what plans they've made, what the bloodbender will do in retaliation to innocent bystanders.

She wakes up, eyes heavy, head throbbing. With one eye closed, she can see part of her nose in the firelight; she can see the oiliness of her skin. A dull ache signals her need to temporarily relocate to a rather high bush and relieve herself.

As she stumbles bleary-eyed into the forest, treading lightly (or lightly by Korra standards), she notices that Tarrlok isn't there. Weird. As the fire smolders, Korra doesn't hear anything in the depths of the forest, but she sees movement. For some reason, she thinks about a picture of a bird, a painting in the air temple.

* * *

She lets the moonlight guide her. All Korra wants to do is rest. He says nothing, moves almost like his bones are stiff. She wonders what would've happened if Tarrlok had never been found out. Chills race down her spine. Would he have just let her die? Or if he'd gotten his way, where would he have taken her—some obscure village in the Earth Kingdom, the Fire Nation? The former certainly is more convenient, given the size of the nation and the crossing of different bloodlines.

But what then? Would he pretend to be her father, her uncle, her husband? What would he do to her? Would she always hate him—or would he eventually break her? Would they settle down and get a dog, matching tattoos, a new life?

_I want to fix this._

But can she? Korra swats at bugs, trips. Never a master of stealth. Rustling brush, briars snagging on her clothes. If Tarrlok hears her make any noise, he doesn't turn, doesn't even slow down. She considers calling out, but she's exceedingly curious about his destination. He pointedly glances at certain defining points, as if to ascertain his return, yet she isn't entirely sure he knows where he's going. How could he? It's started to drizzle, which masks her whereabouts somewhat.

She waits as the forest gives way to grass, doesn't step out as he sits on a ledge. Waits, even when it's the most agonizing thing for someone like her to do. He keeps looking into the water. He's too close to the edge, and her heart quickens, and the sudden fear hits her that he can detect it. No, she reminds herself, they're both lost in that regard.

"Tarrlok?"

His shoulders retract, his body straightening to look at her, regarding her blankly. "Avatar Korra."

She walks forward, the soft crunch of crisp grass becoming the loudest noise. Korra sits, trying to still her body. Her legs hang off of the land. She's witnessed him school his true emotions countless times, but it was often with a smirk or bloated words. Here, he's like his brother, masking his emotions by concealing everything.

There's a twitch in her mind, an unease in her limbs, as if there's a secret floating between them she can't fathom. It's weird, being so close to someone she's had such horrible experiences with. So, to properly encapsulate her preparation for this talk, she says, "Nice night."

Suddenly, he asks, "Did you come here to end your life?" Why would that be his first assumption? She hasn't—no. Korra exhales and thinks about her parents' faces if they heard that their only child took her own life in a fit of despair.

Since saying "no, I was following you" sounds like it opens up too many questions she's too tired to handle at the moment, Korra says, "N-No, I needed to pee."

Almost with humor in his voice, he replies, "You're a horrible liar. Is that really all you can come up with?"

Figures, the one time she isn't lying about the bathroom thing. "Yeah, because it's the truth. I wouldn't do that. Even if I never see my friends or family again, if Mom and Dad found out that I—they must be so worried." Her hands settle onto her knees.

"That's good," he says, no emotion in his voice, so much so that it sounds like he's straining himself to speak. What, good that she's worried? "You're too young to contemplate death."

"Even if it would renew the Avatar cycle? Well, I'm not the Avatar anymore. Or maybe I am, I don't know. You were right. I was too busy focused on trivial things. I still wouldn't have joined your stupid task force, but I should've worked harder. I could've done okay, and now I never will. That whole 'half-baked Avatar-in-training' thing."

His hands twitch on the ground. "Nothing I did should be excused."

"Oh no, you're definitely right there. Arresting innocent people? Jerk move. Intimidating me? Jerk move. Locking me in a box for a whole day without access to a bathroom? Yeah, pretty bad." After a moment, Korra says, "Do you hate him, your brother?"

"How can I?" Tarrlok asks, and his tone crushes her heart.

"I can't believe you're the nicer brother." Amon/Noawhatever carried the brunt of everything, so he probably shut down to prevent further damage.

"You do remind me of him, you know?" And Korra thinks back to that comment he made at the air temple to Noatak about her hair, and it's unsettling that she's even a shade like someone so cold, especially when she's not aloof in the least.

Korra laughs to herself, remembering to the point that it physically pains her. She rubs her arm, her head held down, and he remains quiet. "I was an only child. When I was a kid, my dad would wear pelts and lug them around and pretend he was this great hunter from the old stories, just to make me and my mom laugh. Yeah, my parents were pretty out there."

"I see nothing wrong with that," he says thickly, "as long as they were kind."

"What would you have done to me if you really did leave Republic City with me as your prisoner?"

They don't look at each other during their exchange. Abruptly, he says, "I was trying to break down your defenses."

"Oh, it worked. I spent that evening crying my eyes out." Shaking her head, Korra continues, "It's weird. I seem like a feisty person, but I've never seen crying as a weakness. It makes me feel better."

All business, Tarrlok says, "Avatar Korra, if I fell off of here at this very moment, what would be your reaction?"

"Whoa, Tarrlok. Hold on a minute." Korra leans in for a closer view. His eyes are shining like a fancy doll's glass eyes. "Why—I—I—"

"Nobody will miss a tyrant." He speaks after if reading off of a list. "Things would've been better if my brother and I hadn't been born."

She traces patterns in the dirt, imagining what he must be thinking. (He was supposed to die when his brother opened his cell door. Lifting his head up, the grime encrusted in his hair making his scalp itch, he knew.)

"Someone might miss non-tyrant Tarrlok. The Tarrlok you were before—everything." The words stumble and splat uselessly in the water. Korra wants to wince at how hollow they sound. She believes every word, but she isn't a speaker; she's a fighter. She's tired of fighting, and maybe there are other ways to fight, but her mind is foggy and why, why can't she sleep? "Hey." And she's struck by how unnatural of a sight it is, something so human.

Tarrlok, crying. Making sobbing noises in his palms. Gulping down tears, visage crumpled. Her movements wooden, Korra awkwardly settles her hands on his shoulder, his back. He doesn't lean into her touch or pull away.

What is she supposed to do? Find a way to send a letter, jail them both and move on? They're grown men, not her charges. Bad lives or not, they made their choices, but is it really fated that they die disgraced like their father? Is it her place to decide? They've attacked her personally, but she's not alone in that regard, but it's easy to pity herself when she's always thought good things were mandated to happen to her

The rain grows heavier. She's soaked while encased in internal indecision.

_You need me, but I don't need you. I'm the Avatar._

"I'm sorry for everything you've gone through, Korra." His head is cradled in his hands. "Everything my brother and I have done to you. Everything we've done." Part of her wonders what Amon/Noatak would think about his brother wanting to jump off of a cliff partly because of him.

"You've already apologized."

He rubs his face and stares into the water again. "No. I've never truly apologized for my actions. I should've—we've doomed everything."

Shakily, one hand on her stomach, Korra replies with a half-hearted shrug, "Hey, I'm still here, right? You know, my uncle is the chieftain of the Northern Water Tribe."

His voice small, Tarrlok says, "Yes, I know."

"He's really spiritual. If we can get away one day, maybe he'd let us stay there." By us, she means me and you separate from each other. Or no, the "us" thing shouldn't exist. Just the "you."

His tears and—and she doesn't seek his destruction like she once did, but dwelling near someone so heartbroken—it inflicts conflicting emotions in her heart. What he told her in the air temple attic, when she was torn about leaving an emotionally crippled man, yet had no idea what to do. He's alone, he ruins everything. He's the second one, the one who shouldn't have been.

"What about your mom?" she says. "Is she still around? Do you keep in contact? If she's still there, you can find her."

"Yes, we did, but she's better off without me."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." It's giving up, she thinks, this nonviolent approach. Passivity. To let them do what they want.

_Put an end to this sad story. _

But what is a fitting end—Amon paying for his crimes? Even if that brings hollow satisfaction, what does it change? Will she get her bending back if they're miserable?

Tarrlok holds his arms just above the elbows, pulling the fabric of his sleeves up despite the wetness and cold. She's sees what looks like—no, it's definitely a burn scar. Not too old, either.

"What's this from?" She places her finger just below it.

Tarrlok inhales through his nose and pulls his sleeve down. "After I captured you, I staged a crime scene. Equalist attack. To make it especially convincing, I electrocuted myself with one of those gloves. When the police and healers arrived, I was having one of the medics mend it when Councilman Tenzin interrupted to question me. I never consulted the medic so it could be fully erased."

"Oh, well, that's no problem, I learned from Katara how t—" She chokes on her words, face contorting. "I'm sorry." It's like the passing thought, as the rain pelts down on her, when she considers firebending to prolong her own comfort, but then realizes that it's gone, and now it's all different. She wants to do something for him, not for her, and she can't. And part of her still resents him.

"No," he says with uncommon gentleness, "you have nothing to be sorry for"—but she does—"and you've already lost so much." But haven't they all? Tenzin and his family lost their home; Asami lost her father. Actually, most of them lost their homes. If only she can be confident about this, about anything. Doubtfully, Tarrlok continues, "It's a scar. Even if we"—we, not you, we—"could, it can't be healed."As if losing his voice, he hoarsely adds, "I was the one who initiated the fight. I should have let you." He doesn't elaborate (Let me what?), but Korra catches his meaning.

_It's okay to be scared._

"Trust me. If you hadn't, I would've." She doesn't say anything further, whether she meant she would've started the fight anyway or would have hurt him with her firebending, but she thinks he'll fill in whatever he wishes. Maybe she means both.

Sighing, wrapping her arms around herself and gazing into the blue-black horizon, Korra says, "I acted out of anger and vengeance. I didn't mean to harm you, but I could've. I acted rashly. I'm always rushing in without thinking." It sounds weird spinning off of her tongue. "I'm sorry I almost blew your face off."

"I'm sorry I locked you in a metal box."

Smiling, deciding to incorporate a rather dull attempt at humor (or maybe it was only funny to her), Korra says, "It actually wasn't so bad. Being locked up is kind of a habit with me. When I was a kid and the old dudes from the White Lotus discovered that I was the Avatar, I had a lot of supervision; I was confined and had to escape whenever I could. A compound. They took me there when I was four."

He narrows his eyes. "That's cruel to do to a child."

"Yeah, I thought so, but I was really wild."

Sliding his fingers down his face, distracted, Tarrlok says dryly, "No, not you."

"Yup, me. They weren't that harsh." She swings her dangling feet. "So I probably needed the extra attention, but it was a problem on all counts." Korra says, "Are you really sorry?" Their conversation is jarring and haphazard, no cohesion involved. There's a racket in her mind that won't quit; so many thoughts clash ceaselessly.

"Yes," he replies reedily, "and I admire your tenacity."

To herself, she says numbly, "I can't bend the water out of my clothes." Her hand hurts, and she squeezes it into a tight fist, then relaxes. "You wouldn't have given me any attention if I wasn't the Avatar." She thinks about how everyone in the city has had their sense of security forever shattered. Benders, nonbenders, and she's here on a cliff with a former politician who locked her in a box. It's so obscenely absurd that she wants to laugh.

Changing her line of thought, she says, "But if you and your brother die or get locked up forever, it doesn't solve anything." This talking-it-out thing? She grimaces. Ugh, man. She'll stop hurting others, she decides, but this approach is still a bit half-formed "I don't know, but I'm still the Avatar, with or without my bending. I never won't hate him, I think, I don't know. Zuko did some pretty bad things, but he turned out to be one of Avatar Aang's biggest friends."

Wistfully, Tarrlok says, "If that logic was nonexistent, my brother and I wouldn't be alive, and none of this would've happened."

"Yeah, I got that." Part of her is irritated, mostly with herself for having no good response. He's driven that point into the ground, and she should be sensitive. Even if they aren't exactly friends, she doesn't want him to fling himself off of the ledge. He seems keen on conceding, while Korra fears that anything other than shoving and kicking will break her and turn her complacent.

"I can't leave. He's my brother."

She rolls her shoulders, runs around the corners of her mind until her feet split and crack. She can't relate to the sibling thing much—typically isolated despite the constant attention.

"You know, maybe he does care about you."

In response, Tarrlok says nothing.

"You can't change things if you're dead," Korra says. "You can't."

"And what about atoning for my crimes?"

"No. Those people you've hurt? Their lives don't just magically get better because you suffer. Nobody's going to get their bending or freedom back if Amon and you get locked up."

The world needs her to be strong. Her parents, the rest of her family, Katara, Tenzin, her friends. Everyone else. It is just surreal—after being cooped up for long, her actions actually affect others. The punches echo now.

If she lets Noatak and Tarrlok rot and languish in prison or die, what does that say about fate? It's final, predetermined. Nobody can change a thing when they're dead. No matter how long their spirits wander, a person is better off alive if they want to make a difference or correct a wrong. She can't be here forever; it's not her place, but maybe there's something that can come out of this. Something good—or at least not a sad ending.

Maybe it's easy for her to say, Korra doesn't know. She knows so little.

(You're too young to contemplate death.)

_I need to die?_

_No, I need to live._

We_ need to live._

—

The rain stops, but they're still drenched by it. Korra has no idea how they will find their way back, but Tarrlok points out some nifty landmarks. Neither Tarrlok nor Korra explicitly direct the trek back, yet they walk close to each other, and there's a tacit shift more stunning than if he'd made a love declaration or a marriage proposal or anything as outlandish as those.

Tarrlok thanks her. For what, Korra isn't sure.

Dawn comes. Just how long had they sat there and talked; how long had she listened to him weep without interruption? They walk back to the crude campsite, and, to Korra's dismay, Noatak is very much awake. He's sitting on the ground, knees up, hands draped across them.

The fire has long been snuffed out, and she doesn't catch Noatak's expression before he sees his brother and her. No predatory glint. As they return, he stands, and his countenance reveals nothing. As usual.

She imagines him having Equalists drag benders into alleys and gloomy tunnels, imprisoning them, and then they died of mysterious circumstances. Practice for the main event. Korra shivers.

* * *

There's nothing quite so unpleasant as having Amon walk in on her as she's bathing in a creek. Luckily, he can't see a thing, but he does it so nonchalantly, and she wishes she had her earthbending to propel him into the air. The thought is pretty satisfactory.

Even when she's neck-deep in water, she covers her breasts. "Go away!" She wants to sink completely under, and he regards her emotionlessly.

"When you're finished, I need to speak with you." Nothing he says has too demanding of an edge, yet she still detests his words. Why should she have to abide by what he needs or wants? She wants him to fall head-first in pig-chicken poop and die, yet she doesn't see any dung falling from the sky to accomodate her. "It's rather cold out."

"How did you not get cold when the fire went out?" she asks, not comprehending why he's made that observation.

"Certain … ah, skills of mine have their less destructive benefits."

Her face twisting, Korra says, "Why can't you just waterbend normally?"

Her clothes, which she's cleaned and left to dry without thinking much about how wet they'd be when she got out, are hanging messily on a fallen branch propped against a tree trunk. "Allow me," Noatak says, and, without even a tilt of his head, he wrings the water out, guides it into the creek.

It doesn't exactly cross her mind that he'd do something brazenly sleazy, but he's a waterbender and she's steeped into his element; plus, he just freaks her out. He's too unreadable, unpredictable. She can't bend, no matter her physical strength, so who's to say he won't tire of her insubordinance and drown her, make her heart pop? Korra doesn't know if she should play nice, pretend they aren't enemies, but she's frankly too dejected to care. Does he even get the fallout of his actions?

Stupid bloodbender.

Instead of thanking him, she says, "Leave."

He's a man, she always has to remind herself. He has emotions, and he has a limit. Why else would he resort to doing what he did after his cover was blown? He gets desperate; he has a breaking point.

He shares a past with her in one of the tribes. He knows what it's like to be cocooned in furs on a bitter tundra night, to be in awe at the spirit lights. Or perhaps he was less in awe and pleaded for the spirits to listen.

But he knows the cooking, the old myths, some of the songs—at least, he probably does, even if the memories are faded. He's not "fresh off the boat" like that gang member called her. The implication was clear then; Korra hadn't erased her culture, assimilated, and she hadn't exactly planned to at all. Her home, as stifling as it had been, was a source of love and history. Something organic.

When his back is to her and he departs, she whispers, "Creep." Korra rolls her eyes and simmers. Just like Amon to spoil everything.

When she's finished, she dresses quickly, keeping behind the tree. She doesn't know what she did with the ribbons for her hair, and she doesn't particularly care. She parts the foliage and goes into the clearing, hair as dry as she can make it, and she will bite or maim anyone who attempts to touch it.

Tarrlok sleeps on his side, his limbs curled close to him, looking small and frail, and Noatak is leaning against a tree, arms crossed. It's quite casual, and she almost forgets that this is the man who stood above her and threatened to ruin her.

(Then again, mission accomplished.)

He doesn't smile as he treads softly, certainly toward her. "If I am so inclined," he starts, "I can be generous." Here we go. "However, I have the inkling that you will make it exceedingly difficult. A troubling development—though I suppose it's nothing new at all, actually—since you've seen what I am capable of." His tone suddenly appeasing, he continues, "I abhor the thought of resorting to unsavory tactics. I consider this to be a fresh start, a life where none of us must be unhappy to fulfill the whims of a demanding world."

Korra laughs ruefully. "The 'inkling'? The 'inkling'? You're guessing that I'm not okay with this? You stole from me!" She holds her hand over her heart.

_I've tried to reason with you, Korra, but you've made it impossible._

"Nothing I haven't done to hundreds of men and women. Should you be exempt from my influence?"

She snarls, straightening in an attempt to match his height. "You had no right."

"Perhaps I didn't," he says offhandedly, "but I took the step nobody else could. Even when all I wanted to do was crawl away and have a family again, an intact one, I sacrificed that for my duty."

Eyes hard, Korra says, "I think you're trying too hard with this whole noble act. What happened to you—for you to be like this?" His brow furrows, and she reminisces on what little she knows. He's Amon, not Noatak, and yet he's both. It gives her a headache—or maybe she's getting ill. Great.

Ignoring her question, he says, "I asked my brother where you two went last night." As she opens her mouth, Noatak holds a hand up to stop her. "And no, please do not tell me that excuse about some joint venture to use the bathroom. It's a bit much. I'd like to remind you, as I'm certain I will have to in the future, that any escape attempts will be fruitless. Since you had such a busy night—" She hates the biting tone he has with the last two words. Really, what's that supposed to imply? "—I suggest that you get some rest. We'll be leaving shortly."

"What did Tarrlok say?" she blurts out, and he only raises his eyebrows, his entire demeanor reeking of disdain.

* * *

She develops a cough, swallows them down, but they itch and everything contracts and her nose starts running and her eyes burn and water. Korra wraps her arms around herself, refusing to accept defeat just yet.


	8. Republic City II

The city lights gleam like a million eyes; the eyes of a grand beast, as stark as the legendary Unagi's moon-bright eyes. The United Forces direct most of their attentions to Republic City, the bastion of progress and hope, so there's a forced quiet worse than any impending chaos. Nothing is all right, but many pretend that it is so, too afraid to venture out and claim otherwise.

Contrarily, there are acts of violence, riots in the streets that are halted by (mostly) nonviolent military intervention. The newspapers report conflicting stories depending on the bias. Nothing much as changed, even when three of the reinstated councilors are now nonbenders.

And there is Asami Sato. The soft-spoken idealist. Blinded by privilege, she's been told. No matter Sato's determination, she lacks assertiveness, and Future Industries is under suspicion.

* * *

Tahno washes dishes. Even when he is constantly dipping his fingers into the water when he scrubs and inspects, the soap dries out his hands, and there's little he can do about it.

The diner he works at isn't the dingiest place in Dragon Flats. (It's still contesting with Gin Li's noodle joint for that title.)

The best way he can describe the city now is red and smoky. His parents lived here long before he was born, grew less attuned to their individual cultures. There's always been an abundance of fire-water couples, and Tahno isn't quite certain what the appeal is. He hadn't been a good son. He'd gloated, he'd told them he didn't need them.

Really, losing everything isn't quite a sock in the gut like the littlest things. Yes, it hurts to be kicked out of what defined his life, to be on the outside while knowing the taste of being on top of the world; yes, he misses being able to bend the rain out of his clothes as he sits on a bench and his clothes stick to his damp skin, misses the luxurious life as he unlocks the door to his rundown apartment. But the rain is what hurts most of all, the lack of feeling when the moon rises.

It makes him think, think back on his attitude. He enjoyed his life then, yet Tahno hasn't felt more honest or more accomplished in any period of his life. He thinks about the arguments, the taunting, the cheating, the words ringing in his head about the cleansing of impurities.

The tenements were described as "bee-yootiful" to him by the landlord. It smells like spider-rat dropping. He rubs his eyes and pulls the blinds closed. Hard to believe, but he wasn't resting on cash. He'd spent a good deal of it to preserve his decadent, opulent lifestyle.

* * *

Pabu chatters away. Bolin isn't sure what else to do, so he trains. It'll be a long while until the games start up again, but it's best to be prepared, right? It's an uneasy return to normalcy. Or semi-normalcy, anyway.

Mako tells him that their mother smelled of ginseng, and Bolin only remembers her smile; his older brother drifts between anger and despair to this strange coolness, and Bolin asks himself why he's never seen his brother so conflicted before. It's not just worry; they're all scared about Korra and the city's state.

Bolin isn't sure how to help. His brother, everyone else, anything. He's never had to be the caretaker, never had to make sure they get fed, never been without Mako ensuring that he doesn't get into trouble. Not that he expects any masked crooks to throw him in the back of a vehicle (again); Bolin never has caught (good) attention. He's not exceptionally bitter about it, but it leaves him ill-prepared for the future.

Uncertain in his own skills, Bolin soon joins in the attempts to placate the dispossessed, though his peacemaking skills are somewhat dulled. ("H-Hey, sir? Can you please stop doing that?")

* * *

Hiroshi Sato forgets the days. He thought it would take longer; he's always had an acute mind. The first few days, he holds himself with integrity. It's an honor to be considered a criminal by a faulty and corrupt system. He did no wrong. It only hurts somewhat that his own daughter is an active participant in the oppressive bending regime.

But he shouldn't feel guilty, Hiroshi thinks. He did all he could to save her from being brainwashed while trying to raise a smart and freethinking child. Should he have sacrificed the lives of the oppressed many for a single life?

He catches information Amon and the Avatar are gone, and there's no trace on their whereabouts. Then, he hears worse things that he discredits as rumors perpetuated by the missing Councilman and the Avatar to slander Amon and discredit perfectly legitimate concerns.

Asami visited once, just once, and he refused to acknowledge her as his daughter. She hasn't returned since.

* * *

Lin Beifong was raised with the belief that her mother was the greatest earthbender ever.

"Kiddo," Toph would say, "trust me, you'll be the best earthbender around when I'm dead and gone."

She's never been one to go for a night on the town. Her relationship with Tenzin-it wasn't quite an exemplary match by romantic standards. They had so much in common as young adults. They rarely exhibited passion; they had a staunch conviction to their duties. Yet it all culminated in a relationship that went from one of understanding to one of distance. They comprehended each other far too well. They knew just when the other person wanted to be alone, when they needed to keep apart.

So they did. Lin didn't search for comfort or exude false impressions. If she wanted to be alone, it wasn't a cue that she really wanted someone to embark to uncover the source of her discomfort, and Tenzin understood that. The romance seemed to be a product of assumptions than a true, honest love, a thing of kindred spirits. The latter sounds like a cheap gimmick, but apparently it's the preferred form of companionship. Their parents were true friends, they always played together, so it only seemed natural that they become a couple. Hardly anybody Lin has met knows her as well as Tenzin still does.

She's an adviser of sorts to the Sato girl, though she isn't one for much talk, and it's not public knowledge.

It's a shame, but Lin hadn't been effective curtailing the amount of violence perpetuated by the bending triads. She wishes it was as easy as rounding them all up and throwing away the keys to their cells, but the gangs may have been composed of thugs in the lower rungs, but their leaders were excellent at changing their hideouts regularly, and her forces were spread too thin.

Ever since she told former Councilman Tarrlok to jam his gavel up his fat rump when he told her that he was disappointed with her performance-because the Council believed itself to be the pinnacle of precise and decisive action-he and the rest of the members excluding Tenzin seemed bent on agitating her. (Tenzin never has to try.)

Her loss of bending and loss of her job should instill this listlessness in her. Yet it doesn't. Both of her guardians were women of action. Even with their own personal woes, they hated rest. She isn't sure how to proceed. Her mother wasn't one for deliberate ruminations; she went with her instincts.

Her other parent considered her actions for a good amount of time, a planner who chose her words with much thought, and Lin grew to appreciate both methods. She follows her heart in many circumstances, but Lin Beifong is no fool. Not that her mother was foolish, but such immediate, reactionary habits can lead to falling into unforeseen circumstances.

Lin never cared that she was infertile-neither of her parents were that invested in enthusing about Lin starting a family-but the pressure was more strenuous for Tenzin. After his father died, he was the last airbender, and the only way the cycle's safety could be procured was if he had children. They both understood that; there just never seemed to be any urgency at first.

She never intended for her frigid disposition get blamed on the severing of their relationship. No, her initial dislike of the Avatar stemmed from disappointment. She expected someone just as sagely as Avatar Aang, but now she supposes that worldliness is a process, not a concrete trait in all of the Avatars.


	9. Noatak III

One morning, Noatak wakes up and feels as if he's run across an entire expanse of land. The Avatar is awake, which surprises him, since she's both sick and not prone to being up early. If she could, she'd sleep from dawn to dusk. Tarrlok is still asleep. Oftentimes, she will ignore Noatak, and he has to remind himself that she's an actual person, not the abstract concept he lived with for years when he thought of the Avatar. It's unnerving, so he doesn't dwell on it.

"You were having a bad dream," she says flatly. He says nothing in return. She says nothing particularly venomous on that day-in fact, she says little at all-and that should come as no surprise. Without her bending and without those who care about her, the Avatar feels inadequate and worthless. He's told her so at the air temple and when he committed the deed: told her that she's nothing. He doesn't quite relent, and he tells himself that, logically, it's true. As the Avatar, she can't fulfill her duty, and she's practically worthless in that part of her life.

However, Noatak can empathize with that reliance on bending for self-worth. Perhaps it's juvenile and trite to compare it to consuming an addictive substance, but he can affirm that it's harmful to those who can't fight against it.

How surreal it is, to be in his position. He supposes it's the same for the other two travelers. But he's gone twenty-five years without his brother, and it's so tiring, so futile to dig himself into this mental rut of lies and past regrets. Best to act on what he knows; Noatak wants a worthwhile duty, and he doesn't want that while being separated from Tarrlok again. Of course, then there's the Avatar. His-prize, is that it? It's demeaning, but no, no, no use in confusing himself over that as well. She's the enemy, was the enemy, and she could do some good, learning how to work without fighting her way through with her unnatural advantage.

Should he delude himself into thinking he cares about her well-being, or is it a delusion at all? Ah, here come the mental battles again.

* * *

When they go into the village, there's a boy sweeping his front porch. The Avatar beams at the boy, and the kid pauses for a moment.

Despite how illogical it is, Noatak sees it in her eyes, that almost painful wishing. Wishing, yes, he knows how that goes. She's been forced into a new life, like he had been, except that Noatak and Tarrlok had a bit of choice in some respects, and none in others. She hopes that he detects that something's off, that's he's heard of the missing Avatar from the Southern Water Tribe. But the boy bows cordially and continues his chore without another glance.

The home they procure was the home of an old widow who passed away. The house laid neglected for a month. Surprisingly enough, it hadn't been ransacked through. The wallpaper is peeling, a bathroom wall is rotting, and yet it's still more inviting than their old home. Tarrlok comments that he's at least partially appreciative that their situation now includes an inside restroom.

The first argument in the house arrives quickly in the night, and Noatak shouldn't be surprised. He and Tarrlok have both tried to intimidate the Avatar in the past, and she didn't back down. Yet she had some backing then, her bending as a defense. A meek form of retaliation against experienced bloodbenders, but it was what allowed her to have her bravado. Now, she's sick and a nonbender, and his threats cause her to shoulders to raise. Still, after all that she's lost, she snipes and rebukes, even with her bouts of Tarrlok-esque sullenness. Indeed, maybe having nothing to further take away from her besides her life has emboldened her instead of ruining what fight he'd worked to snuff out. Huh, of course.

When Tarrlok was a prisoner, Noatak had restless nights, fearing that the transition would break his brother. Their father had made their worth dependent on heir abilities as benders, and Tarrlok already had a healthy dose of Not Good Enough before he even lived through a single decade. The Equalists' prisoners in the underground cells hadn't fared well.

In the beginning, after he'd perfected the technique on petty criminals and extortionists (men who may have later suffered or died from aneurysms under strange and terrible circumstances), there hadn't been much pity to run rampant. He reassured himself that they deserved what happened, that the city, his city, was safer. Funnily enough, he thought that before soon waging a massive war. Well, they all had made mistakes, not that Noatak will admit as much openly.

"We can't afford much now," he says. The Avatar has her back to him. Korra tenses and grits her teeth. "I don't care what we're pretending to be." He senses the pace of her heart increasing. "I'm not sleeping with you in any way." She thrusts a finger in front of his face. "If you think I will, you might as well bend my brain out of my skull."

"I never suggested that," Noatak says lightly, holding one hand up. Yes, they lead this charade for the outside world, but within the privacy of this house-he hesitates to call it a home-he finds such a notion unpleasant. "I'll sleep on the floor." He frowns at the rumination of sharing a bed with a petulant individual who hates him, her revulsion and discomfort radiating off of her. Furthermore, he'd never suggest any such of a thing under a roof he shares with his brother.

She watches him warily as he peruses the closet and takes out a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket and a limp pillow. Her fear suggests something deeper, more alarming. When he spins around, Tarrlok waits at the doorway, his countenance revealing nothing.

"Brother, do you really think I'd be capable of such an act?"

Tarrlok tilts his head to the side, his arms crossed languidly. "Capable or willing?"

Noatak's heart compresses. "In the Equalist ranks, a substantial number of women were forced into activities they never consented to. I've seen the effects."

"Yes," his brother says, "and we've seen how loyal you were to them. I'm certain their ability to trust hasn't been compromised any further."

Noatak's pushed throughout their journey to ignore that topic: those who renewed their ability to trust- almost exclusively in him. They are no doubt being subjected to judgment while he slithers away unscathed. Always self-serving. No, that hasn't always been the case.

"I swear to you, I've never done anything of the sort."

Korra snorts, regaining a hefty portion of her gall. "Yeah, and you're Mr. Trustworthy, right? You don't seem to mind pinning me down and threatening me, talking to me like you own me. What do you want? A 'Not-As-Big-Of-A-Jerk-As-You-Could've-Been' award? Congratulations on not being a murderer or even more of a sicko."

"I-" Of course he acted dominant to her. It'd been his place then. They were enemies, and his stance was that there was no place for benders in the ruling world. What was he supposed to do in the midst of battle-dumb himself down, "go easy" on her? That would be an insult to both of them.

"Save it," the Avatar snaps.

"Noatak, believe it or not," Tarrlok says, "but I truly don't believe you'd resort to such savagery, but I don't know the man before me. Perhaps your restraint is merely a tactic to impress me. I've only had the pleasure of meeting the boy who ran away all those years ago." Of course, the implications sink into Noatak's mind: his brother knows Noatak, not Amon.

Korra glares. "Actually, you both have had the knack for treating me like a thing." As if wounded, Tarrlok steps away from the door frame. Noatak doesn't know what transpired between the Avatar and his brother that night he woke up with them both gone, and he can't discern its impact. At times, it's as if she forgives him, but then she'll snap at him. Korra's outbursts have mellowed though, and Tarrlok seems especially driven not to aggravate her.

She sniffles. She's been sneezing and coughing and snorting back the snot the runs out of her nose.

"I don't want you to bend anywhere around, in, or on me." As her comment sinks in, she looks away hurriedly. "Don't say anything." She slides her legs under the covers and pulls them over her, as if they'll serve as a protective cocoon, flopping an arm over her head. At Republic City, she had her polar bear-dog in the room with her if she was lonely.

Of course, she doesn't even regard Noatak as a dog. He can't really say he deserve to be indignant about the whole thing. He'd be suspicious if she feigned goodwill, though he believes that, in the end, she will adjust. She seems to be a selfish person (not that he can judge, really), but Noatak bets that she won't risk the lives of those around her for a chance to escape. One can argue that allowing two criminals loose on the countryside is not responsible, but how many casualties would there be before Noatak fell?

Still, he can't earn her trust. The Avatar seems to respond exclusively to force. It's a fool's gambit to think he can "woo" her, so to speak; he's only ever won admiration through atrocities or lies.

Noatak dreams that he's running through snow. The sky is black, but he can't see it for the flurry of white around him. It's nothing special or trying; he's dreamed this a hundred times.

Yet it's different. He trips. Instead of an endless dash through the tundra as he struggles to breathe and manipulate the snow in his weary state (the snow never seems to yield to his bending in his dreams), it is almost gone. No flurry, and then he falls through the ice.

When he awakes, his world is ice-or cold water. He's soaking wet, the blanket and his clothes doused. The water leaks onto the wooden floor, drips over his hair. He can easily sling it away, but-what? The Avatar stands before him with an empty bucket in her hand.

"Sorry," she says, voice not exactly laced with sympathy, "but you were having a bad dream, and I decided not to bother with the more comfortable methods."

Noatak curtails his ire, and gives her an unsettling smile. "Ah, well, I appreciate your concern, no matter how poorly handled."

She raises her chin, eyes dull. "You're an oily weasel-snake. I don't care if you're okay."

"Did you mistake my previous threats as disingenuine?"

Honestly, he's a bit annoyed by the whole thing. In a way, he can't win. He contradicts himself by rebuking against the defiance and then his mood souring at the sight of sagging shoulders. Really, Noatak should know better than to expect that two people who have lost everything are exceptionally happy to shack up with the person who took their lives and threatens to give one of them an aneurysm if they escape.

Later that day, he announces that he's considering a job at the apothecary, and that the Avatar will have to come with him. He's mildly surprised when, instead of whining, she inches up closer to him. Noatak arches an eyebrow, and she says, "I don't really think you should leave Tarrlok alone."

"Why?"

"He's really . . ." She pauses, as if measuring her words. ". . . down."

"Unfortunately, there's little I can do about my brother's disposition. It's to be expected."

"You could give him his bending back." It's thinly veiled as a challenge, but he can detect her true intention.

"I can't." Her eyes are searching. Ah, it has nothing to do with Tarrlok. "Even if I ever dredged up the desire to, the bloodbending is irreversible. In time, the transition will be easier for him. He's always felt guilty about how he's wielded his bending, so I've done him a favor."

She doesn't have a hissy fit, but he can tell whatever composure she could garner is slipping. "You're a power freak. You can make it sound a pretty and noble as you like, but that's all there is to it."

"You can't pretend to be above that allure, Avatar." She scoffs and looks away hurriedly. When they depart, she sniffs and coughs, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. She shivers from the cold, and Noatak remembers that they're meant to be a married couple, yet he doesn't do anything to perpetuate the facade of two nondescript individuals who cared about each other. They are merely nondescript.

* * *

Noatak once paved his own path, though his brother insists otherwise. That it was fate, that they were their father's pawns all along, no matter their willingness. Whether or not the spirits ordained that, he can't say, but he does detect that he was fated to a new life of engaging in arguments and angering his brother and the Avatar. Sadly, all he wanted was a family, to regain what was rightfully his, what was stolen.

Now, he's rethinking the family part. He had enough power, and perhaps he could take a long, ten-year trip out to the village market before Tarrlok blames him for misplacing anything else. You always used to do this when we were boys, Tarrlok will say, exaperated, and Noatak has to retort, again and again to Tarrlok's disbelief, that he's never lived to make his brother's life harder. It was never his intent to have his brother steeped in perpetual misery. Tarrlok's complaints are often half-hearted, and he remembers the Avatar's words.

"Mother thinks that you're dead." Tarrlok sits at the kitchen, not touching the tea Noatak brewed for him.

Noatak replies shortly, "Forgive me, but why should I care about her well-being?" That'll incense Tarrlok; he knows it before the words come out of his mouth.

Just then, Tarrlok ruffles, the lines in his face deepening. "She had no control of the situation, Noatak."

He lays a palm flat on the table. "She was neglectful."

"How dare you?" Good, good. This is better, much better. "You have no idea what you put her through!" Noatak doesn't have much experience with Tarrlok when he isn't a simpering or reluctant, tearful coward, but he prefers this ire over apathy and outright despair. In the past, his little brother never had the gall to argue with anybody. It was discouraged, beaten out of them with threats and insults.

"No, I don't. I only know what I experienced." Noatak's gaze darkens, and they share a meaningful exchange, a tacit recognition.

"Our father gave up on teaching me . . . our lessons. He died shortly after."

"How? Did you kill him?" Noatak chuckles, brushing dust off the corner of the table. "I don't know why I asked that. You don't have it in you." The room lapses into an uneasy silence. Tarrlok doesn't answer him, and Noatak doesn't mind because he's only sorry that he couldn't witness his father's death. Still, Noatak wonders what transpired between his brother and the Avatar on that night when he woke up and feared that they'd left him. It would be just like when he was a boy and abandoned Tarrlok. Just desserts, apparently.

It seems prudent that the Avatar would take to befriending someone who leaves their bloody stool for Noatak to step in at dawn. She brought a dog home, and the discussion goes to that.

"_Get that mongrel away from me."_

"_It's a dog. It has feelings too."_

"_Does it?" he says bluntly. She huffs._

"It may very well keep her sane," Tarrlok had said, and Noatak relents concerning his misgivings. No, they've both been alone for so long. Now that they're together again, why would one of them throw away their bond? Tarrlok glances at him with an accusation, but says nothing.

"There are crumbs everywhere," Noatak notes blankly, observing his surroundings.

After silence punctuates the air, Tarrlok says, his voice aching, "I thought you were dead."

Noatak inhales, a sharp intake of breath. No, he can handle anger; he can handle disappointment toward himself. Not this.

"You could've froze to death in the storm! Or maybe you did like Grandfather and walked to the edge and let yourself drown. I don't know what it's like to lose my first child."

Evenly, Noatak says, "When I left, it wasn't with the intention of hurting her."

"But you did. After Yakone died, I found her with those quilts she likes to make. The ones with that strange, thin yarn from the Fire Nation that she got from the city. She would hold one she made for you as she slept. I-I woke her up and folded them up, and she begged me to stop. I grew angry with her because-because it seemed like we couldn't heal." Tarrlok placed his head in his hands. "I threatened to burn them, and she began to cry. I couldn't treat her like that." He exhales. "The next time, I covered her up with the blankets. "

Noatak shifts uncomfortably, contemplates, then departs without a word.

* * *

He considers treating the Avatar with the same courtesy when she tosses about, in the thrall of a nightmare. Instead, he grips her shoulder, and she releases a short sputter of breath before opening her eyes.

The Avatar scowls and jerks away, rolling on her other side. "Don't touch me." It's stunning how she argues the very moment she opens her eyes.

"Avatar, your acting as the innocent victim of misfortune is tiring, especially when you are responsible for many deaths."

"And you aren't? But I-I never killed anyone!" Her eyes blaze.

"During the arena battle, there was a man you knocked off as you assaulted him and my lieutenant. We had to scrape him off the dome. He was still there, you know, after they closed the arena. A mess, even after the buzzard-crows had their fill."

Her face contorts into something awful, then breaks. He hadn't heard the end of it from his lieutenant then. The Lieutenant had been angry with himself for allowing any casualties to transpire. To Amon, it was merely a product of war. As Noatak, he couldn't define one predominant emotion.


End file.
